


doll parts

by meditationonbaaal



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Best Friends to Lovers, Betty and Adam are together for about a minute, Brief animal cruelty, F/M, Gladys makes some poor taste jokes, Minor Character Deaths, Murder Mystery, Slow Burn, Southside Betty, Southside Jughead, alice and gladys friendship, drop dead gorgeous au, fluff (gasp!), investigative bughead, mention of past Hal as Black Hood, mention of past suicide, some foul language, sorry Adam, teen beauty pageants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 64,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26651116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meditationonbaaal/pseuds/meditationonbaaal
Summary: “Come on, Mrs. Blossom, it could be good publicity for the pageant,” Betty reasons, offering the cupcake on a clean napkin.Jughead watched her frost them last night while he licked the batter bowl clean. He suddenly notices none of the other contestants are partaking from the baked goods table except for Evelyn Evernever and Ethel Muggs. Even last night while Jughead taste tested a few cupcakes from the first batch, he tried to goad Betty into eating one, but she claimed they weren’t for her.Penelope ignores the cupcake under her nose, a herculean feat by Jughead’s estimation. No one turns their nose up at a Betty Cooper cupcake. He inhaled three of them last night.Penelope arches one perfectly plucked ginger eyebrow at Jughead, and he can see the wheels turning in her head. “How about we make a deal, Mr. Jones?”He’s got the rumblings of dread brewing in his gut, but he bites. “What kind of deal?”
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 207
Kudos: 94
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	1. be the girl with the most cake

He feels like an interloper at the top of the bleachers. It feels stranger with her seated five rows below him. There is a snide aside stuck in his throat, and when Ms. Putnam breaks into a coughing fit after the first bite from one of Cheryl Blossom’s infamous maple bars, he chuckles quietly to himself. _Where’s the Hoover?_ Betty would have loved it, but the opportunity passes. Cheryl always uses too much syrup and not enough butter. Someone could pull a trailer with most of these baked goods.

Jughead aims the camera at the back of Betty’s head and thinks about these missed chances, smacking his lips around the sticky wad that used to be one of Mrs. Lopez’s mini cinnamon rolls. He wishes he didn’t feel so far removed, but he needs to play fly on the wall, needs the vantage point of the action – or lack thereof. Sweeping the viewfinder across the scattering of girls seated below him, he catalogs each dutiful head directed toward the stage across the basketball court.

It is all useable, he reminds himself, action or no action. While she baked cupcakes for the meeting, Betty argued last night that documentaries were supposed to be at least fifty percent boredom because they were a reflection of everyday life. Her mother corroborated this as she passed through the kitchen in search of her Marlboros. _Not every moment is a gem to remember, but we still gotta live it._ His mother shouted from the patio, _Amen!_ And Jughead figured, well, if there was a crumb of truth to Betty’s assessment of documentaries, he had to be true to the craft. He could admit there was some truth to it. Jughead had nodded off during enough of them, even the award-winning ones.

He shifts the camera upwards to capture the middle-aged housewives seated on metal folding chairs in a neat line on the stage. The heavy tarps obscure the men at work behind them but not the noise. Penelope Blossom opens her mouth to start the meeting at the same time someone starts grinding metal. She stands up and offers her best version of an obliging Martha Stewart smile to the meager group of teenage girls and Jughead. The distance and poor resolution of his camera do her justice.

Penelope yanks aside one of the tarps and snaps at the workers to stop hammering for one damned second, yet her tone is much kinder for the foreman. “Mr. Andrews, isn’t it close to lunchtime?” She doesn’t know it is closer to quitting time than luncheon. Despite putting a rush job on the renovations so the stage will be ready for the pageant, Penelope convinces Fred to give the guys an early day. Jughead zooms in on Penelope’s simmering gratitude, doesn’t miss the pinching in her grainy features when the tarp falls back into place.

Penelope’s head moves on a carnivorous swivel, shooting Mrs. Lopez a dirty look. They reserved the gym for one hour after school. At exactly three o’clock, the Riverdale High gym is repurposed for community bingo night on Wednesdays, courtesy of the Elks Lodge, whose actual lodge burned down last year in an electrical fire.

Mrs. Lopez springs to her feet and hurries her way across the stage, her heels loud against the hardwood. She fumbles to get the videotape out of its case and all but shoves it into the poor VHS player, pressing play with one French manicured nail. She turns the volume way up, but Jughead still has a tough time hearing the opening voiceover.

Lee Majors springs up from a bouquet of stockinged legs with his winning slack-jawed smile, his distinct rasp introducing the pageant that Riverdale has held every year for the last four decades. Jughead rolls his eyes at the robotic overdub of _Riverdale_. It is a half-assed personalized touch, knowing they send a copy of this tape to every podunk that subscribes to the _Morning Glory Cosmetics_ newsletter. Why a cosmetic company needs a newsletter is beyond him.

Jughead snorts quietly to himself, checking the battery on his camera as the _Six Million Dollar Man_ outlines the principles of the pageant while he strides proudly through a sea of glittered and heavily make-upped glamazons. When Jughead catches Betty looking up at him and crossing her eyes, he is unable to keep his amusement to himself, shoving his tongue in his cheek to keep from laughing.

All the other girls seem half-bored with the video, too. Tina Patel touches up her silver nail polish, and Midge Klump chews mindlessly on her plastic choker. When it mercifully cuts to the opening credits of the daytime soap _Meet Your Love Maker_ , he senses the collective relief.

Penelope practically bites Mrs. Lopez’s head off, pinching the bridge of her nose. The tape is stopped, and Ms. Putnam flips the lights back on. Mrs. Blossom stands up and strides to the front of the stage, covering up Mrs. Lopez’s misstep with another smile stretched too thin across her face. She welcomes the girls to sign up and help themselves to the dessert table and her signature cherry maple punch, a syrupy concoction with a viscosity vaguely similar to blood.

Jughead is the last to descend the bleachers, which isn’t easy to do quietly. The entire structure rattles dangerously before he leaps and thumps to the court floor. A few heads turn with disapproving looks.

As he approaches the stage to get a better view of the pageant organizers interacting with the contestants, Penelope Blossom leers at him from her station near the punchbowl, as if finally noticing his presence in the gym. “Excuse me, Mr. Jones. Can we help you and your camera?”

Jughead shifts uncomfortably under her gaze but tries to hold the camera steady. “Um, I’m documenting the pageant for a school project.”

He catches Cheryl whisper to Ginger, “Ugh, perve.”

_Don’t you dare press stop_ , he swears to himself, waiting for Penelope’s approval. He secretly hoped he could slink in the periphery unnoticed. It is something he is very good at, passing undetected through the everyday student body, but Penelope zeroes in on him like a wolf in winter now. She glances at the camera lens and back up at him, as if weighing whether or not she will send him packing with a swift Louboutin up the ass. Her stilettos could break skin.

Betty suddenly swings up behind her holding a fresh vanilla cupcake with strawberry cream cheese frosting swirled on top. Her smile is megawatt and dazzling even on Jughead’s video camera, a pitiful piece of technology he salvaged from the clearance pile at RadioShack.

“Come on, Mrs. Blossom, it could be good publicity for the pageant,” Betty reasons, offering the cupcake on a clean napkin.

Jughead watched her frost them last night while he licked the batter bowl clean. He suddenly notices none of the other contestants are partaking from the baked goods table except for Evelyn Evernever and Ethel Muggs. Even last night while Jughead taste tested a few cupcakes from the first batch, he tried to goad Betty into eating one, but she claimed they weren’t for her.

Penelope ignores the cupcake under her nose, a herculean feat by Jughead’s estimation. No one turns their nose up at a Betty Cooper cupcake. He inhaled three of them last night.

Penelope arches one perfectly plucked ginger eyebrow at Jughead, and he can see the wheels turning in her head. “How about we make a deal, Mr. Jones?”

He’s got the rumblings of dread brewing in his gut, but he bites. “What kind of deal?”

Betty lowers the cupcake and steps away, but she knows the tides have probably turned in Jughead’s favor. Penelope wouldn’t deign to speak to him at all if she weren’t willing to play, but Jughead is a little worried about the rules.

“Seeing as how Therese ruined our recruitment video and who knows if we can order a replacement, how about you reedit what’s left of the tape and mix in whatever you get from your little project?”

“You want me to make you a new recruitment video?”

Penelope holds her hand out for Betty’s cupcake, and Betty promptly deposits it in her hand. “I don’t see how else you can justify your being here, Mr. Jones,” Penelope charges, sweeping her little finger through the pink and red speckled frosting. She closes her lips around her pinky and pulls it away with a small pop, waiting for Jughead to either agree or pack his shit and high tail.

Jughead sucks his teeth. Despite being vehemently opposed to beauty pageants and repulsed by the idea of forwarding their agenda by creating more propaganda for them, it is a reasonable compromise. He supposes it wouldn’t take much effort to Frankenstein a new recruitment video. Hell, he might be able to improve it. Or at least offer more transparency for any future contestants, let them know exactly what they are about to subject themselves to. “Deal.”

He holds his right hand out to shake on it, and Penelope purses her lips like she might laugh at him any second. “Go make yourself useful, Mr. Jones,” she sighs and then pivots away to congregate with the rest of the organizers, peeling the paper off Betty’s cupcake.

Betty sidles up next to him, bumping her shoulder into him. “Sorry, Juggie,” she whispers in commiseration.

Shaking his head, Jughead keeps the camera aimed at the sign-up table, capturing the judging looks exchanged amongst the housewives as Evelyn Evernever pens her name onto one of the clipboards. “I’m pretty sure your cupcake greased the wheels, Betts, so no harm done,” he assures her.

“If there’re any left,” she starts. He hears the smile in her voice and immediately calls dibs on the leftovers. She giggles and jostles his shoulder again. 

Before she goes to mingle with the other contestants, Betty asks if he wants to walk home together. Jughead sweeps the viewfinder across the court to get a shot of Ginger Lopez, Tina Patel, and Cheryl Blossom holding court in a tight circle at the top of the key. He _hmms_ in return, opening his mouth to respond but getting distracted fiddling with the zoom.

“Juggie,” she prompts, and he starts to turn his face towards her, but his gaze lags behind, stuck on the viewing window. When he does look at her, she is smiling at him, fondly because she is well-acquainted with his one-track mind.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes in a rush. “Yeah, yes. I need to pick up a few blank tapes from AV class, but yeah, meet you by the field after the meeting?”

“Hold you to it, Jug,” she tells him in teasing warning. “Otherwise these cupcakes are walking home without you.”

Jughead glances at the leftover cupcakes on the dessert table and back at Betty with a challenging glare, daring her to get between him and her baked goods. She simply raises one eyebrow and struts over to the dessert table, planting herself right in front of the tray and launching into a conversation with Ethel Muggs. He smiles and shakes his head, the lines clearly drawn. Doesn’t matter. He knows where she lives, and her mother wouldn’t say boo if she found him sitting at her dinette inhaling the rest of Betty’s cupcakes. But knowing Betty, she would probably hide them.

He looks at the clock above the gym doors, reading the time through the grate. There are only twenty minutes left before the Elks start setting up for bingo night, and Jughead wants to get at least a few interviews in before the meeting is over.

He decides to start with the leading contender and sure-to-be crowd favorite, Cheryl Blossom. His thumb nervously taps the side of the camera, the heavy metal ring clunking against the plastic housing. _Just get it over with, Jones_ , he goads, trying to psyche himself up for the confrontation. It always is with her – a battle.

Shuffling over to the trio at the top of the key, Jug lowers the camera before he asks, just in case she does something unexpected, like dump her punch on him. It wouldn’t be the first time he had been a victim of Cheryl’s particular brand of chaos. For the school paper, Jug once tried to get a few quotes from her for a puff piece on the history of the Riverdale Vixens, the school’s cheerleading troop. She poured her entire carton of orange juice on his tape recorder and screeched at him for failing to ask permission first before he started recording her.

“Hi, Cheryl, um, Ginger, Tina,” he greets, trying his best not to mumble like a moron. Cheryl can smell fear, and he doesn’t need to give her any more ammunition. Jughead also figures ingratiating himself with the head organizer’s daughter might grant him more access to the pageant, the behind-the-scenes and the preparation that goes into it. “Could I interview you all about the pageant? It’s for next year’s recruitment video,” he explains, and then tacks on for good measure, “And, well, I’m making a documentary, too.”

He eyes one cherry-red fingernail raking back and forth across the wax paper of her Dixie cup, keeping his camera at his hip, ready to draw it behind his back. While Ginger and Tina look intrigued, Cheryl seems skeptical. She really is the spitting image of her mother thirty years younger, the same Blossom red hair and big doe brown eyes.

“A documentary?” Cheryl wonders, taking a sip of her mother’s punch.

Jughead senses the door opening. “Yeah, I was thinking of submitting it to some festivals.”

That is the real reason he is shooting this documentary. The annual pageant is a memorable town spectacle in its own right, but given the contenders this year, Jug thinks it might be just the thing he needs to get his foot in the door in the film world. His best friend Betty Cooper is participating, and her sister Polly won last year. Penelope, the head organizer, was crowned Miss Riverdale when she was a senior, and her own daughter is competing this year. The stakes could not be higher, and while Jughead could not care less about who wins the _Morning Glory Cosmetics Miss Teen America Pageant_ – he is very much morally opposed to the entire idea of pageants and thinks Betty is too good for this dog and pony show – he has a hunch this could be his ticket out of here.

Cheryl’s interest picks up at the mention of festivals. She finishes her punch and crushes the Dixie cup in her hand. “Like film festivals,” she clarifies brightly, a light bulb blinking on in her eyes. He thinks mother and daughter, a matching set. If he simply appeals to what is in it for the Blossoms, the doors will keep opening.

Jughead shrugs but then nods. He had a few festivals in mind, and he had made a couple calls already.

Cheryl’s visage brightens tenfold, making Jughead feel like a deer caught in the headlights of a logging truck. She affects a blinding, practiced smile not unlike the one she used for her catalog modeling, an accomplishment she loved to drop not-so-casually into almost any conversation.

“Sure, Lughead, I’ll let you interview me,” she chirps, smacking Ginger in the chest with her crumpled cup. The poor girl, for her part, doesn’t miss a beat and catches the cup without complaint. Jughead wants to wince, but he manages to keep his face neutral. Cheryl juts her chin at her underlings to scram, and they scamper off like well-trained pups. It makes Jughead think about Mrs. Lopez, her obedient scurry across the stage with only a single threatening look from Penelope Blossom, both ruling by fear.

Cheryl turns her full attention back to Jug’s camera and orders Jughead to give her a moment to prepare. She winds the long curl of her true red hair around her fingers and adjusts it over her shoulder just so, then skims a nail at the corners of her lips to scrape away any nonexistent smudges of cherry red lipstick. Cheryl flashes her pearly whites and asks if there is any lipstick on her teeth. There isn’t.

While Jughead privately debates with himself whether he would tell her if there was, Cheryl visually estimates the distance between them. “Is this my mark?” 

Jughead looks at the court floor and back up at her. He judged this distance by her ability to spill punch on him, but it is good enough for the camera. “Uh, yeah.”

Cheryl adopts a three-quarter body angle to the camera lens and flashes every orthodontist’s dream at him. When Jughead doesn’t lift the camera or say anything, she gives him a pointed look. “Well?”

Lifting the camera and centering her in the viewfinder, Jughead makes a mental note to get everyone to sign release waivers as soon as possible, lest a sue-happy Penelope Blossom yank his entire future out from underneath him later on down the road. “So, Cheryl, why are you competing in the pageant?”

She gives him a blank stare. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Jug glances at her over the viewing window, tamping down a world-weary sigh. He’s growing tire of this constant touch-and-go but decides to take a different tack. “Are you nervous about competing?”

Her smile is the picture of poise and confidence. “You know who gets nervous, Lughead?”

“It’s Jughead,” he interjects before he wastes any more time on this cut.

“What?”

“It’s not Lughead. With a J, Jughead,” he corrects.

“Right,” she bites into a smile, not the least bit sorry. “Whatever.”

He quickly adds, “And don’t address me by name. Talk to me like you’re talking to an actual cameraman.”

She tips her head to the side. “Easy enough.” That might make it easier for both of them, make the camera the boundary line between them. The camera makes Jughead feel safer, more objective, more detached, makes him feel like Teflon, more capable of letting Cheryl’s tendency to berate and bully slide right off him.

“As I was saying,” she continues, her Sears catalog-worthy smile plastered back on her face. “I don’t get nervous. You know who gets nervous? Losers. And Cheryl Blossom is not a loser.”

Jughead lifts the viewfinder to his eye just so he can cover most of his face. He doesn’t want her to see the expressions he might make in response to her answers. “Do you think you have a good chance of winning?”

“I’ve been preparing for this since I was a little girl, so yes, I’m going to win,” Cheryl justifies, skipping right over the realm of possibility and planting her flag in the territory of absolute certainty.

Jughead closes the camera and powers down. “Okay, that was great, thanks,” he says dismissively. He forgot how exhausting Cheryl can be.

Scanning the gym for the other contestants, Jughead explains to her, “I need to get some scenes with the other contestants, but do you think I could talk to you again, you know, before all the events start?” He wants to get solid opening interviews with each contestant before the rush of dance practices and judges’ interviews. Then, it will be like pulling teeth trying to get a sit-down with any of the girls.

She sends a forlorn look at the video camera but agrees to meet him at another time. “You should come by archery club practice tomorrow. Three o’clock. I’m the president.”

“Is archery your talent?”

“One of many,” she supplies. “But not the one I will be performing for the pageant. Come by and we’ll talk about it,” she teases, casting the line. He wants to tell her not to bother. She will get plenty of screen time, that’s for sure. Jughead isn’t an idiot. Everyone in this town knows the pageant is going to come down to two contestants, and there was sure to be plenty of hair pulling and passive aggression, but also hopefully some uniting lesson to be found in this whole charade. Otherwise, why make the documentary?

“Three o’clock,” he confirms before turning away to go bother Veronica Lodge, the new-ish transfer.

The Lodges were an old Riverdale family, but high school sweethearts Hiram and Hermione Lodge moved away for college. As far as anyone knew, the Lodges had been living in New York City up until about six months ago when it all dissolved into nothing, the apartment with a park view, their line of credit at every major fashion boutique on Madison Avenue, the whole nine yards. No one knows exactly why they returned to Riverdale, but there were whispers of pyramid schemes and embezzlement. Bernie Madoff had filtered through the rumor mill at one point.

Veronica Lodge was the only daughter of Hiram and Hermione, and despite being a shoe-in for Cheryl Blossom’s crowd, she ended up the odd duck out at many group functions. By Cheryl’s decree, Veronica was _persona non grata_ at Riverdale High, but Jughead suspects Cheryl extended the olive branch to Veronica when she first arrived, and for whatever reason, the new girl snubbed her. Veronica was on the cheerleading squad for all of a week before she started showing up in the art classroom where Jughead often lurked in the darkroom after school.

In a way, Jughead sort of admires Veronica. She seems hell-bent on defying everyone’s expectations of her, which he can definitely relate to. She still wears a pearl necklace, which he speculates is real, and she dresses like one of Blossom’s crowd, but she also draws her fashion ideas in broad and bold strokes during art club and brazenly offers her opinions on _Fahrenheit 451_ before Ms. Putnam can even officially start class.

Betty likes her, too, which for Jughead, marks another point in the acceptance column. He trusts Betty’s taste. Sometimes Veronica sits with them at lunch, if she isn’t sucking on jock Archie Andrews’ face across the quad. While Jughead finds her taste in men suspect, her taste in culture is top notch. She can hold a conversation on a lot of different topics, and generally keeps up with Jughead’s compulsive pop culture references, even some of the more obscure ones.

Jughead sidles up next to her, pouring himself a cup of punch. “Hey, miss, mind if I ask you a few questions about the pageant?”

Mid-sip, Veronica nods vigorously, setting her own cup of punch down to give him her full attention. Swiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she blesses his endeavor with a wave of the other. “Ask away, Jones.”

He offers the same instructions he gave Cheryl, flicking the viewing window open and powering up the camera. “Talk to me like you don’t know me.” Glancing at the screen, he notices his battery is about to give up the ghost.

She grins and sits on the edge of the refreshments table. The punch sloshes about dangerously in the giant half-full glass bowl. “What’s this all about then?” Veronica inquires, tapping her plum-colored nails on the linoleum top of the table.

“So, why are you competing in the pageant?’

Veronica looks at the ground as if in thought, mulling the question longer than Jughead expects. It gives Evelyn Evernever enough time to approach from the opposite side of the table and pour herself another cup of punch.

Veronica peeks behind her, balancing her chin in the dip of her shoulder. “Hey, Evelyn, why are you competing?”

Jughead raises the camera slightly to get more of Evelyn in the shot. He thinks Veronica is deflecting for some reason, but this could be a two for one.

Evelyn smiles at the camera, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. There is powdered sugar on her upper lip. “Oh, I’m trying to spread the message.”

“What message?” Jughead was still a little fuzzy on the details, but he knows Evelyn is newer than Veronica. She transferred to Riverdale only a couple months ago.

“You haven’t heard?” She sounds incredulous and reaches eagerly into her satchel, producing a pamphlet to hand Veronica.

Veronica accepts the pamphlet, turning to face Jughead while she skims it. She flashes the cover at the camera, and it is all sunbeams and fiery lettering. _Become your best self_ and _are you listening to what your soul is telling you?_ Veronica sticks her tongue in her cheek, giving Jughead a knowing look.

Evelyn points emphatically at the pamphlet. “You should come to one of our open houses.”

Jughead senses a sermon brewing and quickly chimes in, getting them back on track. “What’s your talent, Evelyn?”

She side-eyes Veronica casually perusing the pamphlet and answers Jughead without looking at him. “I’ll be doing a dramatic monologue acting out how the prophet first found Arcadia.”

That’s a new one. “Where is this Arcadia?” Jughead asks, humoring her.

“It’s about twenty miles south on the 53,” Evelyn says simply.

Jughead must have missed the memo that paradise was only a hop, skip, and a jump across the county line. Maybe he should get out more. “And this prophet’s name?”

“He’s my dad,” Evelyn beams proudly. “Edgar Evernever.”

Veronica blanches so Jughead can see, and then her mouth tightens into a prim and polite smile. She turns around to give the pamphlet back to Evelyn.

Evelyn pushes it back at her. “Oh, no, that’s for you. I hope it will bring you some insight. You really should come to one of our open houses. We provide dinner and everyone gets a one-on-one meeting with the prophet.”

Veronica tries not to let it show on her face, a mixture of pity and disbelief. “Thanks, Evelyn, I’ll think about it.” She folds the pamphlet in half and stuffs it into her purse.

Evelyn’s bug eyes track the dismissive movement. The camera catches a flash of rage, and then she smiles brightly, all teeth and dead eyes as she shoves the spotlight back onto Veronica. “Have you asked Veronica what her talent is going to be?”

The viewfinder swings back to the brunette. Jughead subtly presses the zoom button. “What’s your talent, Veronica?”

Veronica take a deep breath, squaring her shoulders as if she is preparing for some big reveal. “I will be singing the theme from New York, New York,” she informs him with an overabundance of confidence. 

“Liza Minelli?” Jughead ventures.

Veronica nods, reminding him, “I’m from New York. Going back to my roots.”

“Have you ever been in a beauty pageant before?” Jughead prods, genuinely curious. In his limited opinion, Veronica does not seem the type to compete in pageants.

She checks her nails, seeming bored with the question, and Jughead senses it is another evasive maneuver. “Honestly, I got roped into it by your best friend. She can be very conniving when she wants to be.” And how, Jughead thinks fondly, his mind drifting back to Betty. “Sorry, I meant to say convincing,” Veronica amends quickly.

Jughead closes the viewing window and presses stop before he lets out a chuckle. “No, you can say it. She can be a manipulative little gremlin,” he agrees, glancing around the gym the bouncy blonde. She is hovering with Midge Klump and Nancy Woods on the outskirts of the group.

“How does she manage to be subversive and charming at the same time?” Veronica wonders in disbelief. For someone who wears so much bubblegum pink, Betty could probably convince Jughead to compete in the pageant himself using nothing but a plate of strawberry cupcakes and her urgent little mermaid stare. Jughead is ninety percent sure Betty somehow convinced him to shoot this documentary and made it seem like it was his idea.

“Who do you think is going to win?” Jughead asks off the record.

Veronica scans the crowd. At the same time, the gym doors swing open to carts piled with more metal folding chairs and tables, manned by two prominent Elks Lodge members. Veronica steps closer to Jughead, leaning in like she is imparting a secret. “If it were up to me, it would come down to Betty and Midge Klump.”

Jughead reels back at that a little. “Really? Midge Klump? Not Cheryl?”

Across the court, Cheryl’s head turns at that moment, but her gaze does not follow the movement. Her ears must be burning. Jughead swivels so he is standing shoulder to shoulder with Veronica, just in case his angle lets Cheryl hear too much.

Veronica tilts her head towards him, considering her options. “Cheryl is the obvious choice, no doubt,” she concedes, and then explains her reasoning, “But, she rules by fear. While some might think that is a winning trait in any other beauty pageant, I don’t think it is going to fly here, not the way she thinks. Midge Klump beat out Cheryl for Carrie in the musical last year, which no one expected. Given she accomplished that, I would be willing to bet Midge is going to end up being the leading contender. Kindness matters and approachability. Midge is just as beautiful and popular as Cheryl, but she is also approachable and kind. Do those things describe Cheryl Blossom?”

Jughead _huhs_ in amazement. He hadn’t thought about it that way, and explained by Veronica, it makes total sense. Cheryl Blossom loathes Midge Klump, especially for what happened during auditions last year. They are on the cheerleading squad together, and while Cheryl is head cheerleader and has her dutiful minions in Ginger and Tina, Midge draws a much bigger following without even trying.

“But, then what do I know? I’m just a transfer, and besides, these games are usually rigged, so,” Veronica reasons, rolling her eyes. “Now, if you’re asking me who I think should win, well, you already know.”

“You,” Jughead teases.

“Whatever, Jones.” Veronica shoves him playfully in the shoulder. “I’m gonna motor before the rest of the blue hairs show up.” She tosses her empty Dixie cup and slings her purse over her shoulder.

“Hey,” Jughead bids quickly. “Can I interview you again? You know, for the documentary.”

Veronica glances meaningfully at Penelope. “Don’t you mean the recruitment video?”

Jughead groans quietly at the unwelcome reminder. “Yeah, yeah,” he accedes, waving it off. “Whatever, the recruitment video.”

“Sure, Jughead, you know where to find me.” Then, she turns on her heels and strides towards the gym’s exit.

She cuts a strange picture in the high school gym, too much _savoir vivre_ for the likes of Riverdale High, like she should be strutting down the runway and not weaving her way around Elks setting up for bingo night. It sort of baffles Jughead, though, that despite the chilly aura of poise and class, he finds he can talk to her and feel like he is talking to a normal human being. Maybe he has Betty to thank for that. She was the one that drew Veronica into their small circle of social outcasts.

Someone slings their arm along his shoulder, almost knocking him off his feet. “Come on, Juggie,” Betty singsongs in his ear. “Let’s blow this pop stand.” She reaches up and ruffles his head, skewing his beanie.

Jughead grumbles and reaches up to adjust his crown back into place. “I still need to stop by the audio-visual room.”

She releases him, playfully nudging him toward the door. “Yeah, yeah, blank tapes, I remember.”

He stuffs his video camera in his messenger bag while Betty retrieves the leftover tray of cupcakes, replacing the plastic cover.

Jughead stops abruptly and points at her like she grew a third arm. “Where’s your coat?” They didn’t walk to school together that morning because Betty has a zero period on odd days.

Betty looks down at herself, the pink sweater and jean skirt, nothing out of the ordinary in her eyes. “It was so nice today, I didn’t think I’d need it,” she explains. “I’ll be fine, Jug. It’s not that cold outside.” 

He ignores her and unwraps his extra flannel from around his waist. “Put this on,” he bids, offering her the extra long-sleeve. 

She gently pushes his hand down. “Jughead, I’ll be okay.”

He doubles down, giving her his best kicked puppy look. “Humor me.” Betty might be sneaky when it comes to manipulating others to do things they wouldn’t normally do, even when it ends up being good for them, but Jughead can always count on being able get her to take care of herself if he makes it a favor to him. It has been his foolproof tactic since they were little, appealing to Betty’s empathetic nature.

She huffs and snatches it out of his hands. “Fine.” Shrugging it on, she makes a face at him, sniffing the cotton. “It smells like Hot Dog.”

_Whoops._ “I’ll wash it when I get home,” he promises, but adds for good measure, “You don’t want to get sick before the pageant.”

“That’s a myth,” she contends. “You don’t get colds from the cold.”

“Fine, you can complain about it the whole way home,” he allows.

Someone unfolds a table right next to Jughead and gives him a pointed look. The old man juts his chin at the caged clock above the gym doors. It is five past three. Jughead smiles awkwardly at the old man and then flags down the blonde wearing his flannel. “Come on, Betts, it’s a long walk to Sunnyside, and they might lock the doors to the AV room soon.”

She balances the tray of leftover cupcakes on one arm and loops her other inside his, letting him lead the way. This close he gets a hint of Hot Dog from the flannel. Yeah, he needs to remember to pick up his clothes and put them in the hamper before the sheepdog has a chance to bed down in them.

“Did you get some good takes?” She asks as they leave the gym and head for the main campus. Jughead feels temporarily vindicated when it proves to be pretty chilly outside, chilly enough for a jacket.

He thinks he did, and he tells her as much. “You excited about the pageant?”

“Sometimes I can’t tell the difference, if I’m more nervous or excited,” Betty confesses, squeezing his arm. “I think it’s a whole lot of both, probably, but I’m more hopeful than anything else.”

“Hopeful?”

“Yeah, hopeful this will open some doors for both of us,” she tells him. “You know, you with the documentary. Me with winning the pageant. Maybe we’ll both get lucky,” she muses, staring out across the football field, daydream glow in her green gaze. “You’ll win some big award at one of those film festivals, and I’ll get noticed at state and become a big-time reporter like Diane Sawyer.”

Jughead tries to think of something to say. He is hopeful, too, but he isn’t the type to put too much stock in the hope of success. He doesn’t like setting himself up for disappointment. Something snaps her out of her stargazing in a second, and Jughead almost blames himself, feeling like he waited too long to respond. “I know it’s just fantasy,” she continues. “But sometimes things work out like that. What’s that quote you like so much? The one by the Roman philosopher.”

He thinks he knows which one she is referring to, supplying, “Luck is where preparation meets opportunity.”

“Yeah, that one!” She grins, tugging his arm. “I’ve got a good feeling, Juggie. I don’t know where it comes from, but I really think this is our moment, like things are going to come together. I just – I feel it in my stomach.” Betty gets quiet for a moment, tucking her chin against his shoulder.

“I know I’m supposed to be the objective observer,” Jughead starts, drawing his arm closer to his body, and, by default, her as well. “But, if you want my honest two cents, Betts, you’re going to win.”

“You’re just saying that because we’re friends,” she brushes off.

“You’ve been taking tap since you were a little kid, Betty. You’ve got hundreds of hours of community service under your belt. You're the editor of the school newspaper. You’re on the honor roll, and you’re smart as a whip, and no one can resist your frickin’ cupcakes, let alone your smile,” he defends, his voice growing louder, more emphatic. “You’re smile could steer ships away from cliffs, Betts.”

Betty shoots him an odd look, stopping them both outside the doors to the main campus. “Did you just compare my smile to a lighthouse?”

Jughead pauses, feeling heat in his cheeks. He thought it was a fitting metaphor, but he did practically shout it across the school parking lot.

Betty lets him stew in his embarrassment only briefly before her faux confusion spreads into a teasing smile. It melts into fondness, and she presses her cheek to his shoulder. “Thank you, Jug.” She gives his arm another affectionate squeeze. “I really needed to hear that.”

“Anytime,” he promises her. “It’s true.”

She smiles shyly at the ground. “I believe you.”

Jughead opens the door into the main building and lets her go in first. He smiles privately to himself, tapping his ring against the door handle before following her into the building. Sometimes he really needs to hear that, too.


	2. doll arms, big veins, dog bait

Cheryl is in full archer garb when he gets to the shooting range. The entire scene looks staged, from the scarlet cloak to the rosewood accents on her recurve bow. Seated on the bench with her bow in her lap and a full quiver of arrows slung across her shoulder, she looks like someone cut and pasted straight from a medieval fairytale.

Before Jughead takes a seat at the table opposite her, he gets a friendly wave from Adam Chisholm practicing down range. That is the guy that has been asking Betty Cooper out almost every week for the last year. Jughead wonders if Adam only shows him any attention to get in Betty’s good graces. So far it hasn’t worked.

Cheryl abruptly asks if he wants to get some shots of her practicing. “Sure, maybe later,” he brushes off, powering up the camcorder. He needs to fly by school to intercept Midge Klump after track practice, and then he wants to catch Betty after work.

The background noise is perfect for the take, Jughead thinks. The springy twangs from the released bowstrings are followed by either silent failure or the dull finality of arrows making their mark. Each time an arrow goes sailing past the straw target, Cheryl’s brow pinches in disapproval.

Jughead slides down the bench to get more of the other archery club members in his shot. He fails several times at getting the right distance and focus, settling finally on leaving everything in the background a little blurry. It gets the point across.

“Are you ready yet?” Cheryl snaps impatiently.

It is a warm May afternoon, yet Cheryl is dressed in long sleeves with chest and arm guards. She must have been practicing earlier but retouched her makeup at some point. However, Jughead spots some dampness on her forehead, a shininess peeking through the foundation on her nose and chin. Her mask has an expiration date, and Jug almost wants to push the countdown, draw this out, capture it melting off her face. Maybe by the end he would have a real girl in the viewfinder. The witch puddled at her neck, all that would be left is the real Cheryl Blossom. He wonders what that face would look like, if his camera was capable to capturing it, or if he would turn to stone.

“Okay, yes,” Jughead starts, holding the camcorder at his chest and pressing record. “Cheryl, would you say pageants are a good idea for teenage girls?”

“Of course,” she responds quickly, almost too eagerly. “They teach girls how to build self-confidence.”

Jughead bites his tongue, waiting for her to give her full answer. “You learn how to put yourself out there.” _Like a commodity_ , he thinks to himself. “And work under pressure. Luckily, Blossoms don’t know the meaning of stage fright.” That’s an understatement. Jughead reviewed a few reels from the pageant her mother won thirty years ago. And Clifford Blossom stars in his own maple syrup commercials, red toupee and long-winded monotone and all. 

“Do you think beauty pageants can be empowering for girls?”

Cheryl levels her gaze with him, well-aware of what he is trying to do, and returns cheekily, “What’s more empowering than a girl in a crown?”

She is pithy, he’ll give her that. Her answers are pre-packaged, though, like she was prepped beforehand. Jug is willing to bet her mom runs lines with her. Hell, her mother probably bribed the judges for a list of their interview questions. However, Jughead will get something unpackaged and free of plastic wrap, if he has to wrestle it out of Cheryl’s performative little claws. He is going to get some bang for his buck with this girl whether she agrees to it or not, with all the girls. Otherwise, what the hell is the point of this documentary?

So, he goes straight for the throat. “What do you think about girls being ranked by superficial qualities?”

Cheryl narrows her eyes at him. “Here’s the deal,” she starts, clear-cutting a path to her main point. “People naturally sort themselves into certain groups. That’s just the way it is. This world is made up of two kinds of people, losers and winners. I am not going to spend any time defining what makes a loser because I don’t know. You know why? Because I’m a winner.”

Jughead raises his eyebrows at that, wondering out loud, “What makes a winner?”

“Well, winning, of course,” Cheryl clarifies unhelpfully.

Jughead feels like he needs a nap, but he keeps pushing, grasping at straws. “Do you think compassion and empathy are important qualities in a winner?”

“I think spending too much energy on the weak drags people down. As my mother always says, give a man a fish, you feed him for a day. People need to learn to take care of themselves.” She forgets the second part of that adage about teaching a man to fish, the compassion part of the proverb.

“Have you ever heard the phrase you catch more flies with honey?”

Cheryl balks at that. “What are you talking about? My family is in the maple syrup business.”

“Right.” This is like pulling teeth. It is marvelous, baffling how she can be both purposely and obliviously evasive at the same time. Realizing he is scraping the bottom of the barrel, Jughead chooses a new topic. “What talent will you be performing for the pageant?”

Cheryl seems to appreciate the change in subject. “I will be dancing.”

“Interpretive?” Jughead probes, thinking he is getting better at this, asking the right leading questions. If he finds himself in a corner with an interviewee, he just needs to make a window.

“Oh no, none of that hippie nonsense,” Cheryl says, waving her hand like saying the word alone would conjure up an offending cloud of patchouli and body odor. “Ballroom.”

“Who’s your partner?”

“My brother, of course,” Cheryl states, like her twin would be the obvious choice. “He’s the only one good enough.”

Jughead can agree with that. Riverdale wasn’t exactly a renowned bastion of the performative arts. Most guys wouldn’t have the opportunity to learn ballroom dancing, but Jughead continues to grub around for more, asking, “Good enough?”

“The rest of these hayseeds?” She laughs, blunt and mocking. “You think any of these jakes can do a proper tango?”

Alarmed yet amused, Jughead cannot keep the disbelief out of his voice. “You’re doing a tango?” With her twin brother. Jason Blossom, who used to date Polly Cooper, strangely enough. The optics alone would make for some Jerry Springer level television, and Jughead gets to film it. He cannot believe his luck, even if it is cringeworthy.

“Sure,” Cheryl says, again without an ounce of embarrassment. “We’ve been practicing our routine all spring. Our perfect synchronization brought our dance teacher Master Hoffstadt to tears, so I can only imagine how it will play at the pageant.” Her unwavering confidence is weirdly endearing and admirable, if Jughead can believe it.

Jughead segues into the territory of the other contestants, girding himself to poke the bear. He intends this to be the final segment in his interview with Cheryl and starts planning his exit strategy should it take a dark turn. “How do you get on with the other contestants?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you friends with any of them?”

Cheryl trails, “Well, I’m on the cheerleading squad with Nancy and Midge.” That is not necessarily the same thing.

“Midge Klump, you were in the school musical together last year,” Jughead broaches, knowing he is skirting a bruise.

The reminder of Cheryl’s singular high school disgrace creates a hairline fracture in Cheryl’s mask, making Jughead feel like he waded too far out on a frozen lake, feeling that slight give as his toe touches thin ice.

She grins through it, but it does not have the desired effect. Her smile looks like someone punched a hole in the ice, and Jughead is about to get sucked down into a freezing lake. “Yeah, we had a lot of fun on that project,” she chirps too brightly. 

“What role did you play again?”

Cheryl looks like she might shatter her own teeth with the force of her smile. “I was in the choir,” she supplies tightly.

“And Midge?”

“She got the title role. I guess Kevin thought she had the voice for it, but if you ask me, there was some bias in casting,” Cheryl contends, and Jughead wants to ask about winners making excuses for themselves.

_Pot meet kettle_ , Jughead argues. He considers adding a director’s annotated commentary to his submission, but then considers that might be in poor taste. Most of his private thoughts are neither kosher nor kind, and as Betty says, if you have nothing nice to say.

Jughead takes some pressure off the bruise. He is not a total sadist. “Given you and some of the girls have worked together on other projects, that probably makes it easier for the choreographers and organizers for the pageant? You’ve proven you work well together.”

Cheryl brightens up at that, happy to have something else to talk about. “Yes! My grandmother is helping with choreography on the dance routine. Half the girls in the pageant are on the cheerleading squad together, and Nana is happy she won’t have to spend too much time on the basics.”

Nana Rose was the ancient Blossom matriarch. Rumors speculated she was over one hundred years old, but Jughead speculates she is probably in her late seventies, based on Clifford’s age. Knowing she was going to roll her old bones back out onto the boards to see her only granddaughter dance her way to the crown, Jughead thinks the Blossoms truly are in it to win it. To the Blossoms, legacy was everything.

Jughead reminds himself to call Penelope Blossom and set up an in-house interview. Shots of the inside of that gothic horror show Thornhill Mansion, the entire family gathered in their “sitting room”, an unbroken line of pale and glowing gingers like Victorian phantoms with the anachronistic diction to match – that was gold most other filmmakers would have to pay for.

“Nana Rose is the one who got me into ballroom dancing and archery,” Cheryl confesses, sounding somewhat wistful, even fond. Jughead presses the zoom button, losing the archery club participants in the background, but he wants to capture the look on her face, the first genuine emotion he has seen on her face – well, ever. “She won the pageant when she was my age.”

“Is that what is driving you to win the pageant? You want to make your grandmother proud,” Jughead prompts.

Cheryl seems lost in a thought, and Jughead wonders if she heard him. Then she seems to register Jughead’s question, flinching and sitting up straighter. Her gaze is direct and self-assured but scornful. “I’m in the driver’s seat,” she bites. “Cheryl Blossom is never the passenger in her own life.”

* * *

Jughead arrives to an empty track and curses. He spent too much time on Cheryl’s interview, but he could not miss the opportunity at the end there to pry something sincere from the pageant's frontrunner. He really needs to get an interview with Midge before the judges’ interviews this Saturday.

He turns tail for the Curdle and Sons funeral home. When he shuffles up to the front of town mortuary, Betty is exiting from the side, the metal doors clanging against the brick walls. She taps her way out into the lot, wearing sneakers and scrubs. Her headphones glued to her ears, her Walkman in her hand and raised high above her head, she strides across the tar black with all the pluck and bold magnetism of Gene Kelly. Jughead wishes he had his camcorder in his hand to capture the scene, but it’s stashed in the depths of his messenger bag. There is a blank tape in the slot for Midge’s missed interview, and he curses to himself, missing yet another opportunity to capture something meaningful for the documentary.

_You can’t win them all,_ he reasons with himself, watching Betty twirl about in the middle of an empty parking space before tapping a straight line along the white paint. There is joy in every skip, in the happy swing of her arms, and a smile on her face that stays with him even when he closes his eyes, like a negative image, like looking into the sun. She is so much lightness and air when she dances that sometimes it feels like she gives him a contact high of bubbliness, feeling like a shook-up can of soda.

When she catches him watching, she skids to a stop, skimming her headphones off her ears. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s rude to stare, Jones,” she teases, but then she dances her way over to him. He wants to tell her his mother is the biggest offender, Riverdale’s own notorious serial flirt with bedroom eyes to rival Bacall. Gladys Jones could make a priest blush with one long look alone. This, thankfully, was not a heritable trait. Neither he nor his little sister Jellybean show much of any romantic inclination towards anyone, harmless flirtation or otherwise.

She finishes her dance with one gargantuan leap, sticking her landing directly in front of him. “Did you get your interviews done?”

“No,” he admits, smiling as she wobbles just a bit. “I missed Midge.”

Betty nods. “Yeah, you kind of have to get there before practice ends. She tends to leave immediately after.”

He can hear the muted roar of music from the headphones around her neck. It must be the song she plans to use for her pageant performance. She flicks off her Walkman and stuffs it in her satchel. “How was Cheryl?”

“Extra as always,” Jughead supplies.

“And your others?” Betty prods.

Jughead nods noncommittally, kind of exhausted after his interview with Cheryl. He also got some short interviews with Nancy Woods and Josie McCoy at lunch earlier today.

Unfortunately, Nancy Woods was known more as Chuck Clayton’s girlfriend, which was her main reason for competing in the pageant. _Because my boyfriend thinks I can win_ , she had intimated before peeking over shoulder to blow him a kiss across the quad. Nancy was a bubbly and fun kind of girl, and Jughead thinks she has a decent chance of placing in the pageant. Remembering that interview, he wonders why almost everything that comes out of Nancy’s mouth is always vaguely – sexual. He will have to review her scenes during the editing process because at first blush, it feels innocuous and innocent. Until about ten minutes later when he really thinks about what she said in a different context.

In contrast, Josie’s interview was very tame. She was the well-known lead singer of the local band, _The Pussycats_ , but some rift had occurred recently, and now she was promoting herself as a solo act. When he asked her why she decided to participate in the pageant, she told him, _plenty of girls make transitions from pageants to singing professionally._ He needs to look that up later, how many singers got their starts in beauty pageants, just to cross all his _t’s_. Not that he would include that factoid in the documentary. He just wants to know himself, how many successful women – businesswomen, politicians, celebrities, and the like – jumpstarted their careers from beauty pageants.

Jughead puts a bookmark in these thoughts. He feels like they are always snowballing in the direction of the documentary. There are so many different avenues to explore, and he needs to pick and choose, but every single one feels worthy and interesting. Sometimes, though, he wants a reprieve from the rabbit hole.

“How was work?” He asks Betty. He would rather listen to her talk about the dead for the walk home than spend one more minute ruminating on the flimsy and half-formed yet soon-to-be researched merits of beauty pageants.

“You know, same old, same old,” she provides, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her baggy scrubs. “We’re about to get really busy. You know, the beginning of summer and all. Last year, we’d already had three drownings before Memorial Day.” He listens to her talk about matching foundations, dealing with the sometimes outrageous requests of the deceased’s family, but that she knows she should make every effort to meet them, that she would want someone to do the same for her. He listens to her talk the entire way home and offers up his own commentary and suggestions if solicited. By the time they part at their respective trailers, he finds he has just a bit more energy for reviewing and editing the day’s tapes.

* * *

Betty comments that Jughead is violating so many health codes by sitting on the prep tables, but he makes no move to vacate his perch, ignoring her complaints and raising the viewfinder to his eye. “Don’t evade the question, Betts,” he pushes, repeating his query about why she chose tap dancing as her talent.

Betty glares at him, turning back to the line of students delivering their lunch trays to the bussing window. She scratches her forehead with one yellow-gloved hand. The hairnets always leave an irritated line of red along her hairline. Jughead asks her the question again in a wheedling voice, gets ready to start chanting it until she answers, when Adam Chisholm and Cheryl Blossom sidle up in the queue.

“Hey, Betty,” Adam greets warmly, making eyes at her across the counter.

Betty beams with polite interest, “Hey, Adam!”

After Adam’s third jilted invitation, Jughead finally asked Betty if she would ever consider going out with the guy. He was a nice enough choice as far as the dating pool went in Riverdale, if not a little dull. Betty agreed and admitted she was interested, but she just didn’t have the time for dating. Between her job at the funeral home and the school cafeteria and then tap lessons and school and running errands for her mom, dating was low on her list of priorities.

Jughead recognizes the question forming on Adam’s face. He has heard it enough times that he could probably mouth along to the dialogue.

When Betty reaches for his tray, Adam circumvents her, grabbing the spray hose to rinse his own tray. “Is this how you do it?” He asks self-consciously, and Betty smiles kindly at the guy’s awkwardness, adjusting his angle so it is directed into the right sink. She tactfully relieves him of his tray with an amused thanks.

“So, um, Betty,” Adam starts, and Jughead thinks, _here we go,_ raising his camcorder. He notices Cheryl frowning in the periphery, studying the exchange with a subtle note of envy. He adjusts the viewfinder to get her in the frame as Adam continues, “A couple of us are going to the swimming hole this weekend, if you wanted to come.”

Betty pauses, opening her mouth to say something, and Adam adds in a rush, “If you’re not busy.”

Her smile wavers, like she isn’t quite sure whether to grin or maintain her practiced smile, the polite but distant one, and then Jughead sees it. She wants to go. The pink in her cheeks isn’t just from the steamy sinks. When she suddenly agrees, Jughead releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It feels like something is stuck inside his chest, and he thinks maybe he ate something off, rubbing his sternum.

Cheryl chooses that moment to drop her tray in the sink, splashing gray water and soggy shepherd’s pie everywhere. She marches off without so much as a half-assed sorry. Adam, looking apologetic, reaches through the bussing window to swipe a piece of ground beef out of Betty’s hairnet. She sighs when she sees what falls off her face, sing-songing, “Guess it’s Friday.”

“Sorry about that,” Adam offers, like it is his fault, which it might be. Adam went to prom with Cheryl Blossom because Betty turned him down. Apparently, this romance between Adam and Cheryl did not survive past prom, much to Cheryl’s chagrin, obviously. Jughead thinks the guy could have chosen a better time to ask Betty out, that it was cold to do it in front of Cheryl. But then, Jug has no clue what went down between Adam and Cheryl after prom. For all he knows, Cheryl dropped her tray in the water because she was sick of waiting in line to bus her tray.

“Are we still on for Saturday?” Adam asks, sounding hopeful.

Betty wipes her forehead with the back of her gloved hand and nods, her smile brightening once again. Jughead starts to get that tightness in his chest again, tries to force a burp, but it might not be indigestion. He should pick up some Tums from the convenience store after school.

After Adam leaves, Betty turns to Jug, anticipating his question. _Why now?_

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately,” she confesses. “You know, the _you only live once_ kind of thing. We’re about to graduate, and I’ve never been on a real date.”

Jughead is well-aware of that fact, but he never thought twice about it because he had never been on one either. Neither Betty nor Jughead even went to prom.

“Don’t I deserve at least one date, Juggie?” Betty muses, turning back to the line of waiting students.

“Sure,” Jug defends readily, “Of course. You’re young. You should enjoy it.” He means it, rubbing at his chest again.

It pains him to think Betty doesn’t believe she should be allowed to have any fun. It has always been about making ends meet and getting out of Riverdale. Jughead understands that song and dance better than anybody. He has two jobs himself depending on the season, the Bijoux movie theater in winter and the Twilight drive-in during the summer, where he spends most of his weekends. Where he will probably be while Betty is doing cannonballs with Adam Chisholm at the Sweetwater swimming hole. He thinks about Betty playing chicken, atop Adam’s shoulders, her bare legs wrapped around another guy’s shoulders, his hands struggling to keep a grip on her wet thighs as she fought whoever was up for the competition.

Jughead shuts down his camcorder, realizing he has nothing to record at the moment. He hops off the prep counter and comes up to the sinks.

“You know you should, too,” Betty reasons, looking over at him.

He laughs, partially at himself. He had never given it much thought because he had never been interested in anyone enough to ask them out. No one had come barking up his tree either. On the other hand, Betty had a handful of suitors over the years – Adam, Trevor Brown, Reggie Mantle – but she turned them all down and told Jughead she just didn’t feel it.

When he asked her what this mysterious _it_ was, she simply said, ‘You’ll know it when you feel it, too, Jug.’ Implying if he didn’t know what she was talking about, then he had probably never felt it.

‘How would you know then?’ He tossed back. ‘If you’ve never felt _it_ either.’

‘I don’t know,’ she had shrugged. ‘But, my mom says when you know, you know.’

The only thing that has ever gotten Jughead’s heart racing was a double cheeseburger and a chocolate shake from Pop’s diner, both before and after devouring his favorite meal. That and watching Betty tap. She was mesmerizing when she danced, and for years, Jughead often sat on the floor in the back of the dance studio watching her practice, finding the pulse of his heart matched the pace of her taps, skipping at all the right moments. Thinking about how he feels watching her dance, he wants to ask her if she feels it now, with Adam, if it is like that.

Before he can, Veronica comes running up to the bussing station. She wedges her way between two students, breathless and disheveled and sounding like she just sprinted across campus, a commendable feat in those heels. "Did you hear what happened?"

Betty keeps rinsing trays, yanking on the long metal spray hose. Veronica causes a traffic jam of students behind her, and Betty has to reach around her bedraggled friend to accept another dirty tray, smiling sidelong at the brunette. “What’s so important you have to bother me at work, Ronnie? You and Jughead both.” Betty shoots a glare over at him. 

“Midge Klump is dead,” Veronica blurts out, and the entire line of students stops talking, all heads turning in the same direction simultaneously. With how quickly the room falls silent, it makes Jughead feel like someone knocked him into a nightmare.

Betty drops the tray she was rinsing in the wrong sink and gets splashed with more of the soupy mix of Friday’s lunch. A small dollop of mashed potato clings to the round of her chin, which starts to wobble. She does not wipe her face, instead staring dumbfounded at Veronica. “What? How?” Betty muddles, accidentally letting the spray hose loose and spraying a couple students behind Veronica.

Jughead snatches it out of the air and releases the sticky handle, replacing it in its hook for Betty. He reaches for Betty’s shoulder at the same time Veronica leans through the bussing window and grabs her hand. “It was a freak accident, apparently. I guess she was driving home yesterday after practice. She had the top down, and her scarf got caught in the wheel well. It pulled her right out of the car,” Veronica explains, and then adds, choking a little, “She didn’t make it.”

Stunned, Jughead cannot imagine dying like that. He didn’t think someone could die like that. It sounds horrific, to be launched from the driver’s seat, but then wouldn’t her seatbelt keep her from being pulled out of the vehicle? Was she not wearing one? He wants to ask Veronica for more information, but then he gets distracted by Betty’s stillness. Though she deals with death every day – _it’s a hazard of the trade_ , as she would say with false brightness – he can see the news filtering through her. Badly.

“Betts,” he whispers, his hand on her arm.

Veronica continues to hold Betty’s hand, but her shoulders start rising to her ears, a sure sign that she isn’t coping. Veronica releases Betty’s hand, and then she is click-clacking around to the door into the kitchen. She hurries to wrap her arms around Betty before Jughead can. He wants to. His whole body suddenly aches with it, and when she starts crying, he feels heat in his eyes. Even when they were kids and Betty cried, Jughead would feel it in his entire body. He settles for coming up behind her, hand on her shoulder, working at the tension, hoping anything helps.

Veronica draws Betty’s face into her shoulder. Her blouse looks like it costs more than Jug’s entire outfit, camcorder included, but Veronica doesn’t seem to mind, cooing and running her fingers through the smooth spiral of Betty’s ponytail.

“Doesn’t make any sense,” he hears her mumble into Veronica’s shoulder.

“It was an accident, Betty,” Veronica reminds her gently.

Betty pushes away but keeps her arms wrapped around Veronica’s waist. Jughead feels a tug on his front and spots a stray hand tangled up in his sherpa. He smiles despite himself.

“No,” she says with more conviction. “It doesn’t make sense. Midge never wore her scarf if she drove with the top down. Not after her near-miss last year when it flew up in her face. She almost drove off the bridge. She used to call it her driving scarf until that happened, and she swore she would never wear it again. This doesn’t add up.”

“Maybe she changed her mind,” Veronica reasons weakly.

* * *

After school, Jughead loiters outside of art club waiting for Toni Topaz and Peaches Cream to come sneak a smoke in the girls’ bathroom. His handy-cam is already powered up and ready to go.

Without fail, Toni and Peaches spill out into the hallway. Toni shrugs on her flannel and listens to Peaches rant about the lack of originality in this fucking school, this entire town. She pays special attention to today’s most inspired still life – a bowl of fruit – courtesy of Ms. Kandinsky. “All I wanted to do was take a bite out of one of those apples or make her choke on those canned olives. It’s called a still life for a reason. _Life,”_ she stresses. “As in living, lived in, Jesus.”

Toni notices Jughead standing next to the door, the camcorder in his hand. “Can we help you, Jones?”

Jug gestures the handy-cam at them. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the beauty pageant?”

Peaches snorts, flashing him a derisive grin. Toni purses her lips at him. She always manages to make him feel like all his questions are stupid questions, giving him that look she is worried about hurting his feelings yet also superior because she gets something he doesn’t and never will. Jughead could spend his entire life trying to figure it out and never come within spitting distance of whatever universal truth exists inside Toni Topaz. Not for lack of trying, though, because he sticks around. Betty is straight with him, but she has a tendency to sugarcoat things. Toni pulls no punches, and he needs that now. 

“We’re not paying into that fucking con job,” Peaches sneers.

Toni corroborates this but with less swearing. “We’re not selling out for that whitewashed joke they call a beauty pageant, so why are you asking us, Jones?”

“That’s why I wanted to ask you,” Jughead reasons. “I want other perspectives, you know, from the girls who aren’t competing, why they aren’t, et cetera.”

Toni rolls her eyes and snatches him up by the front of his denim jacket, hauling him toward the girl’s bathroom. “Have we got a tale for you, Jones,” she tempts, dragging him into no man’s land.

The girls’ bathroom feels crowded even though it’s empty, almost claustrophobic, but then it has a lot more stalls. He clears his throat, repressing a cough. It is smokier than he expected after school, and both Toni and Peaches add to the haze. Toni strikes a match and lights two cigarettes pinched between her teeth before handing one to Peaches. She hops up onto one of the sinks, swinging her legs back and forth. He wonders if she purposely rips all her stockings or if it is the same pair worn over and over again to the point the rips happen on their own. He can never tell how much of Toni is an arranged aesthetic and how much happens on its own.

Jughead waggles the handy-cam at them in a bid to start recording. Toni looks at her cigarette and shrugs. Not much anyone could do at this point since they are all set to graduate in a few weeks.

Peaches produces an extra-large El Marko from her back pocket and starts drawing what looks like a tree in the margins between the rest of the graffiti littering the walls. The tree gnarls and winds, roots and branches reaching every bit of empty space, growing despite the pressing boundaries around it.

Jughead waits for the red light to blink to life and flips open the viewing window. “So, why aren’t you competing in the pageant?”

Peaches scoffs, “Isn’t it obvious?”

Jughead gives her a blank look.

Toni chimes in, “Look at the contestants, Jones. You think girls like us stand a chance?”

“The whole game’s rigged,” Peaches maintains. “Mrs. White Bread of America Cheryl Blossom is gonna win. We all know it.” She scoffs, tracing an unknown symbol into the trunk of the tree, using a lighter hand with the chunky marker. “She’s the richest girl in town, and she’s whiter than snow.”

“Look at the last five girls who won,” Toni argues. “You think girls like me and Peaches can afford to make our own costumes or hell, lessons for any kind of talent.” Peaches adds that visual art like painting doesn’t really go that far in beauty pageants. They want a performance. Toni continues, “And we’re not exactly the key demographic. Look at the girls who won the whole pageant, the last Miss Teen America.”

Jughead agrees the vast majority of contestants are white and privileged. The winners are even more so. The last Miss Teen America had a seven-figure trust fund. It is a fair point of contention, probably something that doesn’t get broached often with beauty pageants. He bargains for more depth, though, asking further, “Do you think the lack of representation is something pageants could improve? If there was a bigger push to increase diversity or you felt you had as fair a chance of winning as anyone else, would you compete?” He makes a mental note to address this issue with the head organizer later, interested in what Penelope Blossom has to say about the lack of representation in beauty pageants.

Peaches outright disagrees, vowing she wouldn’t be caught dead traipsing across that stage all glittered up, more plastic than girl. “You come talk to me when beauty pageants actually represent real women. I bet you those girls shit glitter and Vasoline for weeks after the pageant,” she rants, and then adds in a spit of anger, “Besides, it’s a death sentence.”

Toni takes a drag off her cigarette and taps ash into the sink underneath her. “You saw what happened to Midge Klump.”

“That was an accident,” Jughead contends. The coroner ruled as such, according to Betty, who was on hair and makeup duty right now for Midge’s funeral service. Veronica asked her if she was ready for that, and Betty maintained that it was better her than someone who didn’t know Midge, someone who cared about her.

“Right,” Toni agrees, heavy sarcasm in her voice. “You don’t think it’s a little too much that the girl who was most likely to give Cheryl Blossom a run for her money suddenly dies in a tragic accident two weeks before the pageant? I mean sign-ups were what, a few days ago.”

“Why wasn’t she wearing a seatbelt?” Peaches throws in, and Jughead admits he was wondering the same thing. Even with a seatbelt on, was it possible to be pulled from the car by a scarf in a wheel well?

“That would mean,” Jughead starts and then stops his train of thought right there. “You’d have to be a complete monster.”

Peaches snorts, “You’re telling us. Can you imagine? Someone wraps your favorite scarf around your neck and then ties it to the chassis and puts a brick on the accelerator? You’ve seen that scarf, right?” Jughead had seen Midge’s driving scarf a few times. It must have been almost thirty feet long. The sheriff’s department said the entire length of it was wrapped around the wheel well.

“Fucking diabolical,” Toni concurs, nodding grimly. “And I bet you whoever is behind it is just getting started.”

“It’s only one,” Jughead debates. “That’s hardly a pattern.”

“You need to do your research, Jones,” Toni says.

She suddenly stabs her half-finished cigarette out in the sink. “Press stop.”

He does, closing the viewing window. When she still doesn’t say anything, he gives her the handy-cam for verification. She sets it on the counter and turns to him. “You should look into Penelope Blossom.”

“Why?” Jughead watched some of Penelope’s pageant reels, but he hadn’t dug any deeper than that.

Toni’s tone feels almost cartoonishly ominous, but then he knows Toni is not one to exaggerate. “Just look it up, okay,” Toni bids. “The year Penelope Blossom won the pageant.”

“Banner year for murder and mayhem in the Blossom name,” Peaches chimes in, finishing the roots of her tree right next to the sentiment, _art is ded_. Underneath, Peaches writes _so is spelling_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you caught the Community quote, kudos.


	3. you will ache like i ache

“Talk to me like you don’t know me.” He hops up on her desk and crosses his legs. Balancing his elbows on his knees, he sweeps the lens from her bedroom door to where she is seated in the same position on her unmade bed.

“I’ll do my best,” she promises, but then rolls her tongue and crosses her eyes, throwing herself across the bed in a sprawl of akimbo limbs and beating her feet against the mattress like a petulant child.

“Come on, Betts, be serious,” he huffs, finger hovering over the record button. “I’ve got finite battery life here.”

Betty rolls over onto her stomach and asks if this is still okay, bending her knees and letting her feet sway back and forth behind her on a lackadaisical glide.

“If you’re relaxed, that’s good,” he tells her.

She scoffs, calling him out on his inconsistencies. “Just not _too_ relaxed, then.”

He sighs. “Work with me here, okay, please.”

She grabs one of her teddy-bears and hugs it, rolling onto her side in a sulk. “Be a doll then.”

He drops his camera in his lap. “No,” he states firmly, snapping the viewing window closed. “That’s – I didn’t mean it like that.” He reaches up and removes his beanie, carding his fingers through his hair, and then replacing it as quickly as possible. “I want you to be comfortable, but I.” He pauses, trying to think of the best way to put it. Tact has never been his close friend, but Betty usually lets him practice on her. That is half the reason he is here, and he asked politely first if he could test-run some interview questions on her.

“You know what, never mind, be yourself. I’d rather you be yourself,” he amends, and then adds just as sincerely, “Even if that means you throwing a tantrum. In fact, that might be helpful. Be the worst interviewee ever.”

She sits up abruptly, her sulk dissolving in a teasing smile, and she vaults the teddy-bear at him. “Can’t-take-a-joke Jones strikes again,” she proclaims when it clocks him square in the forehead.

He lets it, closing his eyes as one fluffy paw smacks him on the nose. He takes a deep breath and reaches down to right the teddy-bear, propping it up on her desk chair. “Are you ready for your interview now? I didn’t know you could be such a diva, Betts.”

“I’ve got more teddy-bears, Juggie,” she warns, reaching for the green velvet one he gave her on her tenth birthday. She grabs the teddy-bear and stuffs it under her chest, resting her chin on her folded arms. “Ready when you are, wannabe Coppola.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of Errol Morris, but sure, I’ll take Coppola,” he muses, flipping open the viewing window once more.

He makes a show of pressing the record button, and Betty gives him her beatific smile as a promise to be on her best behavior. Jughead meant it, though. He would rather she be herself. Unlike some of the other contestants, Betty seems very comfortable in front of a camera. She appears natural, as opposed to Cheryl’s meticulous staging, like the teddy-bear propped up on the desk chair, all stuffing and blank embroidered smile.

He peels his hand back and looks at the sticky note taped to his palm, beginning at the top. It is a hardball question. “How do you feel about the way pageants objectify women?”

“Wow, straight for the jugular,” she marvels wide-eyed. Recognizing Jughead has no intention of lobbing them right over the plate, she repositions herself into sitting cross-legged again, pulling the green teddy-bear into her lap. “I guess if I look at it from that point of view, you gotta beat them at their own game.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

She tosses the teddy-bear behind her where it lands on the soft berth of pillows. “I’m getting my foot in the door,” she asserts. “I know some people think pageants are superficial and anti-feminist, and with a lot of those people, there is no room for argument, but this is my ticket. I like to think of it as being resourceful.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Jughead concedes. He wishes there were a better way for Betty to prove her worth, but every year this was it for the teenage girls in the small town of Riverdale.

He knows good grades and extracurriculars can only get someone so far, especially if they are from the Southside. Betty got into college, no problem, but paying for it was a whole separate obstacle. In fact, Betty was so good, she got into Columbia, much to no one’s surprise at Sunnyside. Neither Alice nor Gladys raised an eyebrow, and it certainly was not surprising to Jughead himself. Betty was conqueror of all things, and some people thought she had the devil’s luck, but she was not fortunate enough to receive a full-ride scholarship.

When Betty tore open the acceptance packet and read off the tuition fees, her mother threw her glass of wine across the kitchen. Luckily, the glass was stemless and plastic, but there is still a faint stain of Franzia on the cabinet above the refrigerator. Despite her family’s low income, Betty’s financial aid package barely made a dent in the full cost of tuition.

Betty decided to defer a year and raise some money for school. She also considered setting her sights slightly lower, perhaps applying to some state schools or starting at a community college. Alice would not hear of it, arguing that her daughter earned Columbia fair and square, and if they had to rub every two pennies earned to make a dime, they would.

While Jughead was sad for Betty, the missed opportunity, he couldn’t help admitting to being partially – just a little, he maintains – glad that she would be sticking around for another year. They had never been apart, not in the ten years since Alice moved to Sunnyside with two toe-headed little girls. Polly and Betty were close enough in age they could have been twins, but while his own mother often mixed them up, he always knew which one was Betty, without fail, even when they tried to trick him. He just doesn’t want to give that up just yet, that essential sense of knowing. He gets to be her best friend for just a little while longer, and he would take all he could get.

Jughead himself had not applied to any colleges this time around, arguing he did not need to go to college to be a writer or a filmmaker. Quentin Tarantino never even finished high school. Jughead yelled this at his mom the same night Betty was accepted into Columbia.

‘If I had half your brains, kid,’ she shouted through his closed bedroom door, and he wanted to answer that question for her, but it probably would have broken both their hearts. He was already thinking about Betty moving to New York City, and the dreadful thought that come fall he would probably still be in his bedroom in Sunnyside counting down the days until the first school break – he already felt he could not wait that long. The distance was already palpable.

So, both Betty and Jughead would be in Riverdale for another year, except Betty might not. She might win the pageant and go on to state in Albany. From there, she might end up at the national in Cleveland this year. And Jughead would probably follow her to both, but only if Betty were crowned. He doesn’t think he will follow Cheryl if she wins.

“Some people think I’m sacrificing my dignity participating in the pageant, but you know what, at least I’m trying, and you know what my mom says for people who don’t try,” Betty argues with the camera. 

Despite the documentarian’s neutrality compact, Jughead quotes it back verbatim from _Three O’Clock High_. “You didn’t even try.”

They both affect the same accent and affect at the same time. “How’s that _feel?”_ And both laugh in tandem, Betty grabbing her bent knees and rocking back and forth on the bed. She appears much more relaxed now, comforted by this inside joke, even if it breaks Jughead’s vow of impartiality. He would rather she be natural, and to be honest, the camera loves it.

Betty grows quiet for a beat, rubbing her index finger across her palm. “What would you do in my situation?” Then, she seems to think better of it, quickly ending that train of thought. “You know what, on second thought, don’t answer that. Have you asked the other girls these questions yet?”

“Like I said earlier, you’re my guinea pig,” he reminds her.

She snorts. “You mean I’m less likely to scratch your eyes out.” 

He does not have the best sense of knowing when it is okay to ask these questions or whether it would be better to keep his mouth shut. Betty is more forgiving of his social ineptitude, and sure, he takes advantage of it now, but at least he asked first. He wants to go easy on her. It’s in his nature, too, to be kinder to her than he otherwise would be with anyone else, but any other documentarian worth their salt knows that impartiality is the golden rule. The submission committee would be able to smell the bias from a mile away, which is why he girds himself for the next topic. If she shuts him down, though, he will understand. He won’t push. It isn’t an easy one.

Jughead sweeps the camera up at the mural of photographs on the opposite wall. He zooms in on one in particular, an old polaroid showing a very young Betty between two equally blonde adults, a younger Alice Cooper and the other whom Jughead has never met. “How do your parents feel about you participating in the pageant?”

Betty follows his gaze to the photograph. “Um, my mom is all for it. She competed when she was a senior, lost out to Penelope Blossom, as you probably know.” Jughead does, and he zooms in on another photograph of Alice Cooper standing next to Penelope Blossom and another girl, Penelope crowned, her arms full of roses, Alice smiling falsely and standing off to the side with her second-runner up sash.

Per Toni’s advice, Jughead started digging into the year Penelope Blossom won the pageant. Whoever wrote the obits that year had their hands full in the month of May 1979, but Jughead was able to pin down a few articles directly related to the pageant. There was one accidental death of a pageant contestant and three critical injuries to people directly related to the event, as well as one suicide. He has quite a few questions loaded up in the chamber, all in time for his at-home interview with Penelope later today. Penelope’s answers would help him figure out his next move because a few newspaper articles from two decades ago does not a verdict make.

“And your dad?” He asks like he doesn’t know. He doesn’t, not really. Jughead only knows as much as he has caught from conversations between their mothers and from Betty herself, but everyone in Greendale County knows who Betty’s father was, homegrown right here in Riverdale, the notorious serial killer The Black Hood.

Betty glances at the photograph on her wall, the blond man in the Easter blue L.L. Bean sweater with the baking soda white smile. “Oh, him?” She notes, remembering that yes, at one point, Betty Cooper had a dad. “Yeah, my dad,” she starts and then falters, working her thumb across her palm. “Why, are you asking the other girls about their families?”

“It’s part of the picture,” he justifies, but then adds, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He means that. It should be her choice. It isn’t the lightest subject for Betty, and Jughead knows it took years for their neighbors and peers to stop bringing it up. Elementary school was a rough time for both Betty and Polly.

Betty seems to make up her mind, shrugging. “Okay, sure, that’s my dad. It’s public knowledge, but he was a serial killer in the eighties. I barely remember him, but we used to live on the northside of town. When it was happening, I guess my mom had no idea. That’s what she says.” Betty falls back on the mountain of pillows behind her, stretching her legs across the length of the bed. “Sometimes I wonder if I got my delusions of grandeur from him, but I’m not exactly keen on killing people to get there,” she half-jokes, clasping her hands over her stomach.

Jughead considers the fine line between self-confidence and thinking one has a mandate from God. It was something that featured heavily in the Black Hood’s manifestos. Yes, Jughead looked them up years ago when he started developing what Betty fondly calls his tin-foil hat phase freshman year. He prefers to call it his _In Cold Blood_ phase. It was something he never quite overcame, either, not without much rehabilitation from Betty herself. She always tempers him when he gets caught in the throes of it now.

They joined the school paper freshman year. The editor-in-chief at the time Dexter Howard wanted to send Jughead packing within the first week. He called Jughead a zealot and a nut. It was Betty who reeled him in, reasoned with Jughead that he needed to present concrete evidence Principal Weatherbee was padding grades for the football team. _No one respects a yellow journalist, Juggie_. It turned out Weatherbee was not, but Coach Kleats was greasing some wheels with a handful of teachers. Scandal erupted, but it was quickly covered up to save the athletic program. Jughead was appeased when the administration let Kleats go, albeit barely. Someone had to fall on the sword, but only getting rid of the briber does nothing about the bribees.

Concrete evidence, though, that’s what Jughead needs for his investigation into Penelope Blossom’s pageant-winning year. Otherwise he might as well be wearing a tinfoil hat.

“What do you remember about him?” He asks, continuing with the interview.

Betty pets the green velvet teddy-bear next to her. “Not a lot. He seems kind in my memories, but then I read newspapers from back then, and all that kind of goes dark. I think he was a credit hog.”

  
He wants to stop recording and tell her she is nothing like that. Betty does not need the spotlight, but it follows her anyway. Or that’s just him projecting. He needs to be impartial. Real documentarians are impartial, don’t interfere with their subjects. _Be the damned fly on the wall, Jones_. “Do you think people look at you a certain way in this pageant because of him?”

She glances at him and not the camera, and by the look in her eyes, he knows he is poking a bruise. “Like he’ll affect my chances? Maybe. Probably not. The Greendale Ripper ended up stealing all his glory back then, so he sort of ended up a dime store serial killer. He wasn’t very good at it either. Half his victims got away,” she explains with a half-hearted scoff, running her fingers over the shiny black button eyes of the teddy-bear.

Jughead recalls that coming up in the post-arrest analyses of the Black Hood. Hal Cooper had been a textbook narcissistic psychopath, but he was still an interesting subject for many psychological journals. There weren’t many high functioning serial killers, less ones that were established family men in their communities. However, no one really got the chance to do a deeper dive because.

“Do you ever see him?”

Betty laughs short. “Oh, no, he offed himself. He was barely six months into his sentence, according to my mother. She thinks it was because he got the spotlight stolen from him. She says he was very vain, always concerned about his appearance. He was a proud man.”

Betty grumbles and sits up, “Sorry, this feels like I’m talking about a stranger.” She pauses, fiddling with the bear’s crushed velvet ears. “Can I tell you something off the record?”

Jughead presses the stop button and lowers the camera into his lap.

“I think that’s why Penelope Blossom has it out for me,” she intimates in a whisper, like she cannot trust the walls around her. He wants to tell her Penelope Blossom would not be caught within fifty feet of Sunnyside. If she were, she would probably demand to have Sunnyside relocated immediately just for happening to be in her path. 

“You think Penelope Blossom is after you,” Jughead wonders, whispering himself, feeling silly for mirroring her.

“She’s always trying to undercut me at pageant meetings. She tried to say I hadn’t even signed up for the pageant, but you have me on camera there, Jughead. That’s the only way I got my name on the list,” Betty gripes.

Jughead balks at that. He had no clue that came up in the last couple days, and he’s wondering why this is the first time he is hearing about it. He missed one of the lunchtime meetings with the pageant organizing committee on Friday because he had to make up a math test. But, he can imagine it. Betty showing up to the meeting, Penelope skimming the clipboard for her absent name, Veronica speaking out in Betty’s defense, Betty reminding Penelope that Jughead filmed the entire informational meeting Wednesday afternoon. He wonders whether Penelope thought she would actually get away with it or if she did it just to prove a point.

“Then, with what happened to Midge,” Betty adds, trailing off.

“That was an accident,” Jughead reasons, feeling a flush of déjà vu. Toni and Peaches didn’t think Midge was an accident either.

“She wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, Jug. Doesn’t that seem weird to you? And like I said, she stopped wearing that scarf months ago. If she was the one driving, she never wore it. Why would she suddenly start wearing it again, especially if she was by herself, given what happened last time? Something isn’t adding up.” Betty is starting to sound a lot like freshman year conspiracy-theory Jughead.

“Okay, but what does that have to do with Penelope and your dad?”

Betty chews the inside of her cheek, giving him her worried little mermaid face. “I guess they had an affair back in the day,” she confesses. “Penelope and my dad.”

“Whoa,” Jughead goggles. “How did you find out?”

“My mom told me,” she explains. “I guess Clifford Blossom paid my mom a lot of money to keep quiet about it. There’s even an NDA. We lost the house on Elm Street, and that’s how we ended up in Sunnyside. Mom used the money to buy the trailer and the property outright, and then she started the salon with your mom. The rest is history.”

Jughead knew the last part, but he had no idea there was a lot more to the reason the Coopers ended up on the Southside. “It sounds like a great origin story for a villain,” he jokes, trying for levity, and for his effort, Betty does laugh. “If someone were offing contestants to take the crown.” 

Betty guffaws despite herself, swallowing it with a self-conscious hiccup. She continues the joke, on a roll. “Her family wronged in the past, one girl takes up her father’s sword,” she jests in turn. “To win the pageant, no matter the cost, no girl will stand in her way.” She slashes the air with an imaginary blade, and Jughead cannot help the fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Then, she sobers, considering something. “I think my mom is still bent out of shape over what happened with dad, but it’s not something you can get over with a snap of the fingers, right?” She snaps her fingers in emphasis. “At least she has your mom to commiserate with, criminal husbands and all that.”

He smiles again like a nervous tick. If Jughead can give his shit-bird dad credit for anything, it’s that his incarceration created the opportunity for that commiseration. Otherwise, Jughead may never have known the pleasure of having Betty Cooper as his best friend.

She smiles sadly, but he can tell there is lightness around the corner. “I guess all the girls will have a tale of woe for the camera,” she surmises.

Jughead isn’t sure he will use this footage, though. None of the other girls have to cough up the sordid details of their dead serial killer dad. It doesn’t seem fair that Betty should have to air out her family’s dirty laundry from ten years ago, even if it might cause the submission committee to salivate for more. Jughead doesn’t think he could cash in on the Cooper’s tragedy just for his documentary, not in good conscience.

“Betty, if you don’t want me to use this footage, I won’t,” he tells her with as much sincerity as he can muster.

“It’s not good for your documentary?” She wonders.

“That’s not the point,” he contends. It’s not worth it if it means throwing her family back on the front burner. The Coopers have been struggling to get off the coals for the last decade. Betty deserves a chance to accomplish something without that dead specter hanging over her head.

“Juggie, you know I offered it freely, right?” She rises from the mound of pillows and scoots to the edge of the bed closest to him. “I can’t be afraid of him for the rest of my life. These things are always going to come up. No matter where I go or what I do, it’s public information. I’m starting to find it’s best to just face these things head on. I can’t keep my head in the sand forever, so yes, you can use that footage. I want you to use that footage. You have my sincere and honest blessing,” she states firmly, crossing the air with her hand.

He reaches up and readjusts his beanie, feeling another soft smile tickling his mouth. “Thanks, Betty.”

“Just, you know, you better win some big award at one of those festivals,” she warns, scooping up the green velvet teddy-bear once more. She waggles the animal’s stuffed arms at him. “Make it worth it.” 

He manipulates the camera in his lap, turning it on its head. “Betty, do you really think Penelope Blossom is coming after you?”

She falls back on her bed again, the pillows sighing with her. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’m just being paranoid. It sounds kind of farfetched doesn’t it?”

He nearly tells her about Toni and Peaches, what they said about Penelope Blossom, but hasn’t done enough legwork to reach any definition conviction. He has hunches, but that’s all they are, hunches and tenuous ones at best. It was Betty who taught him he shouldn’t present a theory until he could back it up.

Sensing his uneasiness, Betty interjects before he can, “Ugh, don’t answer that.” She tilts her wrist towards her to catch the time. “Shoot, I’m going to be late.”

“Your date?” He supposes casually as Betty springs up off her bed, tumbling into her dresser. He watches her extract her red two-piece and a pair of jean shorts.

“Yes, I am,” she announces proudly. “I’m going to be a normal teenager and enjoy my youth, for once,” she proclaims like she is daring him to tell her she cannot. More daring herself, he concludes, or her mother. Jughead has never been in the business of telling Betty what to do and never will be.

“It’s not crazy,” he tells her, calling back to her suspicions about Penelope. “This isn’t the first time a pageant contestant has died,” he finally confesses.

Standing next to her open dresser drawer with her bathing suit clutched in her hand, Betty turns her big green eyes on him. “It isn’t?”

“The year Penelope won the pageant, another girl died. And there were some accidents, a suicide. I’m looking into it,” he explains, and then adds quickly before her mind tumbles down a rabbit hole. “It’s just a theory right now, Betty. _Just_ a theory.”

She slams her dresser drawer closed and rounds on him. He knows this face well, Betty Cooper’s face when there is a brand spanking new investigation to dig into. “Oh my god and you didn’t tell me,” she accuses, drawing right up to her desk and shaking her bathing suit at him. “Investigating without me? How dare?”

He raises his palms in contrition. “Like I said, just a theory. I didn’t want to worry you until I thought there might be something more to it.”

“And clearly there is,” she argues, sweeping her arm out wide. His gaze follows the flight of her bathing suit through the air. “Was the death a murder? An accident? What?” She is about to get her teeth on the bone, he can feel it. When Betty got her teeth into a new story, she would not let go until it was marrow and splinters.

“How about we talk about this when you don’t have a date?” He suggests gently, keeping his palms raised in mollification.

“Research session afterwards?” She wonders eagerly and then changes her mind, her thoughts running a mile a minute. “Or no, you should come, too. I was going to invite you anyway. And then afterwards we can hit up the library before closing.”

“Betts, slow your roll,” he says with a sigh, even though investigative mode Betty is one of his most favorite Betties. “I’ve already gone through most of the archives, but there is one box I haven’t checked yet,” he explains, tossing the bait into the water with a sly smile.

She catches on instantly, grabbing his knees and leaning toward him. “Coroner’s reports,” she concludes easily, and he watches the wheels turning double time in her eyes, the plan forming. “Dr. Curdle and Junior have to drive to Centerville to pick up a body tomorrow. We can do it then. Meet me here at noon.” He appreciates she can follow his train of thought all on her own. Also, that she makes it noon, knowing he can’t be bothered to get up before ten on a Sunday.

She claps his knees again. “But, you should still come with us. It’ll be fun, Juggie,” she pushes. “When’s the last time you were at Sweetwater swimming hole?”

Probably the last time he went with her and Polly and Archie Andrews when they were still friends, which was in middle school, and if he remembers correctly, leeches were involved. He reminds her of that, and she quirks a brow at him. “You’re sure that wasn’t a movie?”

He smirks. “No, I’m pretty sure that was us.”

“Well, come and find out,” she challenges, rocking on his knees. “Please, Juggie.”

Jughead raises a skeptical brow at her. “And butt in on your _date,_ ” he teases. “I must scream third wheel energy to you, Betts.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “It’s a bunch of people, Jug, not just me and Adam.”

_Fifth wheel energy then,_ he finishes in his head. He suddenly feels unbearably hungry, his stomach grumbling loudly. He also feels like the last place he wants to be is at Sweetwater swimming hole with Betty and Adam and a bunch of people he doesn’t know. Because it would be him awkward and uncomfortable in the corner while he watched Betty and Adam flirt in their skivvies, and that just doesn’t sound like a productive way to spend his Saturday afternoon.

Jughead hops off her desk and shoulders around her, reaching for his messenger bag. “Any other day, I’d relish the chance to beat you at chicken, but unfortunately, I’ve got a date of my own.”

She feigns intrigue, flashing her best faux bedroom eyes at him. “Oh, who’s the lucky lady?”

He smiles, tucking his camera carefully into his bag. “Well, I don’t want to get ahead of myself. We’ve only just started seeing each other,” he leads. 

“Don’t be a tease, Juggie,” Betty scolds, coming up behind him and setting her chin on his shoulder. For a blink, he thinks she should take her own advice but then quickly banishes the thought from whence it came, wherever it came from.

“It’s a delicate subject, Betts,” he whispers conspiratorially. “She’s an older woman.”

“Jughead Jones,” she gasps next to his ear. Her breath tickles his ear, and he feels heat on the back of his neck. “Did you catch a cougar?”

He turns abruptly, catching her off guard. She almost stumbles back onto her bed, but he grabs her upper arms and steadies her. Her wide-eyed surprise makes him stop playing metaphorical chicken. “It’s my interview with Penelope Blossom. Pretty scandalous, huh.”

Betty huffs, her curiosity deflating. She steps around him towards the bathroom. “How anticlimactic,” she says with a sigh. “Better watch your back around that woman, Jones. I know we’re only in the theorizing stage, but you know what they say about gut instinct,” she warns him as she closes the bathroom door behind her.

Jughead reaches up and readjusts his beanie, feeling like his heart is in his throat. What the hell has he been eating lately? He calls out that he’ll see her tomorrow and leaves, feeling like all the blood in his body has drained into his face. He stops by his house and raids the cabinets until his mother yells at him about eating all the Goldfish, and then he skips off like a chastised crow for the Blossom’s.

* * *

If one folded the map of Riverdale in half, Sunnyside trailer park and the Blossom family mansion would touch. It takes Jughead a one-hour bus ride and a fifteen-minute walk up the private drive to get to Thornhill, which has graced this hill since the founding of Riverdale nearly two hundred years ago. The security guard at the entrance is expecting him, but he still asks for Jughead’s photo ID to get through the gates.

He takes a few moments to get some shots of his approach, the lavish manicured grounds and award-winning rose garden leading to the family cemetery. By the time he reaches the doors that must double as the gates of hell, there is sweat under his beanie.

Jughead presses the doorbell, and it sounds like church bells bounding and echoing through the vacuous halls inside. The door creaks loudly on its hinges as the Blossom’s butler in a uniform worth more than Jug’s trailer opens the door and ushers him into the palatial foyer.

The butler informs Jughead the family is expecting him in the sitting room and asks for his full name so he may be formally announced. Keeping with the grandiosity, Jughead gives the butler the name listed on his birth certificate. No one is less a fan of his real name than Jughead himself, but it ends up being worth it to see the look of confusion cross the faces of the three Blossoms waiting for him in the sitting room.

Cheryl leans forward and gives her mother an odd look. “Forsythe who?”

Jughead offers an awkward little wave, and the three heads swivel in tandem to see the stranger in question. Clifford’s surprise melts away first as he connects the dots, given he played football with Jug’s father back in the day.

Jughead takes a seat on the opposite loveseat, noting Jason Blossom is absent from the staged tableau. They look like they are sitting for a family portrait. Jughead glances at the hearth where a full fire roars below – in May – and sure enough there is the painting hung above the mantel matching the scene in front of him. He notices there are no family photos around the sitting room. There were none in the foyer either. Jughead wonders if the Blossoms only commission paintings because they don’t show up on film, but when he turns on his handy-cam and flashes it at the three, they appear as clear as his camera can manage in the viewing window.

While he checks the settings on his handy-cam, Cheryl asks if he was joking with that announcement. “Is that your real name?”

“It’s what they listed on my birth certificate,” he defends without looking up. “Everything is so formal here, I thought I’d keep with the theme.”

Penelope immediately calls him on his bullshit. “Then, would you mind taking off your hat.” She does not pose it as a question. “It’s rude to wear it inside,” she scolds, giving him and his security blanket a pointed look. He can tell she did not appreciate the gag.

Jughead grinds his teeth but obliges, sweeping his beanie off his head and stuffing it into his bag. He smiles tightly at Penelope and asks if he can start recording. She gives him a dismissive wave of her hand, and then turns to double-check her daughter’s makeup and hair. Penelope licks her thumb and smooths out a nonexistent flyaway. Cheryl doesn’t even flinch, staring unblinking at the camera as if patiently waiting for her cue to talk.

Jughead often wonders what exactly goes on inside Cheryl Blossom’s head. At school, she can be unpredictable. She is witty in her own right, but cutting, and it often seems like chaos dominates her selections, who suffers and who earns mercy. She is much more obedient right now with her parents present. He wonders if she likes being picked and prodded and molded constantly by her mother, or if some of this might be an act. If her random penchant for a little helter-skelter is merely the way she lets off some steam.

Pressing record, Jughead lifts the viewfinder to his eye. Having most of the camera obscuring his face gives him a certain level of comfort, especially without the security blanket usually affixed to the top of his head. Betty once accused him of showering with it on, but he bets the Blossoms can see pretty well right now that he is not adverse to basic hygiene. With some amusement, Jughead notes Clifford’s toupee looks even more fake on film, but he probably has terrible helmet hair himself right now.

Before he can pose the first question, a cold draft sweeps across the back of his neck, and he claps his hand over the instant clamminess. Peeking behind him, his heart leaps up into his throat, thinking he sees a ghost floating through the foyer, but it is just Jason Blossom heading for the staircase with a plate, looking casual and cozy as ever in a velvet robe.

Trying to keep the fearful squeak out of his voice, he asks if Jason will be joining later. He wanted to ask Jason himself about his upcoming tango with Cheryl. Penelope offers up some vagary about Jason having a long night, needs his rest, tending to Nana Blossom upstairs, eventually trailing off. He could push the envelope, but if he wants to broach some of the tougher subjects later, he needs to soften some barriers around the Blossoms now, not cause them to raise bridges.

Jughead presses record and opens with some perfunctory gratitude, “Thanks for meeting with me.”

The simpering line of carbon-copy Blossom smiles flashed at the camera makes something sink in Jughead’s stomach. He expects their jaws to drop, unhinge, and take equal parts of himself into each one. Being here feels eerily similar to being in a Gothic horror story, something straight out of a Le Fanu or Henry James narrative. Steeling himself, he poses the first question to Mrs. Blossom. “How are preparations coming for the pageant?”

“Splendidly,” Penelope gushes. “The renovations for the gym are nearly finished, and all the girls are working diligently on the decorations for the pageant. We have a very industrious group of girls this year, but that’s no surprise, not with my Cheryl on the ballot. My daughter is a born leader.”

Clifford takes this chance to mention that the Blossoms have paid for almost all the decorations for the pageant. Out of the goodness of his heart, Jughead is sure, considering the Blossom Maple Syrup label has been slapped onto every banner and advertisement regarding the pageant.

Jughead thinks about debating whether dictators are made not born but scratches his forehead and asks about the upcoming judge’s interviews. They were rescheduled for Tuesday afternoon because Midge’s funeral is on Monday. School was cancelled for it.

“Yes, the judges’ interviews. Many people overlook the importance of the judges’ interviews, but it is very much the make or break point for the girls,” Penelope explains. “The girls have to think on their feet, and it demonstrates how well they can work under pressure. In addition to all that, this is the only one-on-one the girls will have with the judges. It is their only chance to make a lasting impression, to set themselves apart from the other contestants before the real pageant starts.” She reaches over and smooths her hand down the back of Cheryl’s head. The action should be motherly and fond, but it looks like a little girl stroking the head of her favorite doll. “My Cheryl shouldn’t have any problems with that. She never buckles under pressure, do you, dear?”

Cheryl points out, “If you know yourself, there is no question that will trip you up.” It is choice bit of wisdom, and if it were coming from a genuine place, Jughead thinks he would root for Cheryl, too.

The grandfather clock chimes loudly from the foyer, and it must be Clifford Blossom’s cue. He makes an excuse about having some prior engagement that needs tending, and as he rises to go, Jughead gets a great shot of Penelope’s severe, patrician profile, her stubborn gaze trained on the perfectly trimmed boxwoods outside the window. She does not watch her husband go.

Cheryl, for her part, looks a smidge more relaxed with her father’s departure. In fact, like someone unlocked her shackles, she turns to her mother and asks if she can go practice her talent, reasoning Nana Blossom must be fully awake now, and she and Jason could always use the extra practice. Jughead’s ears perk up, hoping he can get some pre-pageant shots of the twins’ tango.

Mrs. Blossom pats her daughter’s hand and nods, but then she wraps her hand around Cheryl’s wrist. He notices the subtle tug, chews his lip when Penelope leans over and warns her daughter in a hushed whisper that she better find them practicing later and not buried in a bag of Bugles again. “I know about that secret stash you and your brother were hiding. There’s less than two weeks before the pageant, dear. No room for slip-ups.”

Cheryl’s gaze flits nervously over to Jughead. Subdued outrage twists her mouth, but embarrassment shines in her doe eyes. Jughead, as gracefully and mercifully as he can, does the only tactful thing he can think of and averts his eyes into his lap, pretending like he didn’t hear it and checking the battery life on his handy-cam. Still, he marvels that even Cheryl was not immune to the temptation of a sneaked snack so close to the pageant, abetted by her brother no less. It is a rare glimpse into her head space, that she might be human after all.

Jughead got Betty to eat a donut yesterday morning after he ‘accidentally’ knocked her breakfast out of her hand, her cup of yogurt splattered across the tar black. She argued that Polly didn’t even eat breakfast for the month leading up to the pageant, and he very nearly and meanly threw back that that probably contributes to her older sister being in a mental institution. He doesn’t want that fate for Betty. No one wants that fate for anyone, not even Cheryl Blossom.

He feels like he needs to address this at some point in the documentary, how much the girls limit themselves, the physical stress they put on their bodies. There are too many threads he could pull, and he feels like he needs to focus on a few key issues before this turns into a Frankenstein documentary. He considers shooting all of it and parsing it out into three separate films later. He could submit them to different festivals and maybe increase his chances of acceptance. It would be a crap-load of extra work, but it might bolster his portfolio. He wishes he could address everything, but it is turning into a tangled yarn.

Cheryl does it as subtly as possible, but she yanks her hand out from her mother’s hold and leaves the sitting room without another word.

Penelope skims a manicured finger along her hairline and turns her gaze back to the camera. “I guess it’s just you and me, young man,” she teases, and it is an eerie reminder of Betty’s jests from earlier about catching cougars.

“You must have more burning questions,” she prompts, reaching forward for her cup of tea. It is from the Blossom’s brand-name china. Jughead could find the generic version in any department store within a four-county radius, but he knows the cup in her hand is worth ten times more than the one he would find on the shelf.

“Yeah,” he returns, resetting himself. “Right, how do you feel about the lack of diversity in these pageants?” This is the start of the real interview.

“Diversity?” She repeats, like the word is foreign to her. “What do you mean?”

He clarifies innocently, “I mean girls from different backgrounds, socioeconomic, race.”

Penelope has the gall to look confused. “The pageant does not bar any high school senior girl from competing, Mr. Jones.”

“Yes,” he concedes, but adds, “But, only certain girls ever win.”

“What girls are you talking about?” She asks, an edge growing in her voice.

“Well, income usually factors into it and ethnicity.”

Penelope is quick to point out the only exception to the rule. “Income? Polly Cooper won last year, and she does not come from a well-to-do family, Mr. Jones. And we have two girls of Latin descent competing this year, two girls of African-American descent. Is that not _diverse_ enough for you?” She asks, her eyes narrowing directly at him, not the camera at his chest. He forgot to raise it back to his face.

“But, they never win,” he maintains, standing his ground.

Penelope drops her stick and steps right over the beaten bush. Now nothing stands between them. She leans forward, placing her teacup back on the saucer. “Are you implying we discriminate?”

“I’m just point out a pattern, Mrs. Blossom,” he contends, drawing his camera back to rest against his chest, just in case she lunges for it.

Penelope snaps her fingers for the butler from before and directs him to pour Mr. Jones a cup. He wonders if she makes the butler do it as a power move, but Jughead is grateful the butler does it and not Penelope herself. He doesn’t know what this woman hides up her sleeves.

While the butler retrieves a clean teacup and saucer from the tray and sets it in front of Jughead, Penelope continues, “The girls who win are the epitome of class, poise, intellect, and hard-won talent. They persevere and they smile while they face adversity. The girls who win do not make excuses for themselves. Now, they might grow losers over on the Southside, telling you to make victims of yourselves, but winners try, Mr. Jones. No one knows who is going to win the pageant any given year, but the girls who put themselves up on that stage all have an equal chance of winning because they try.”

Parts of that response were reasonable and diplomatic, but Jughead finds his blood boiling at the Southside comment. Polly Cooper won last year by essentially breaking herself for this woman, these people, fucking Jason Blossom, her boyfriend up to the point the ambulance arrived after her nervous breakdown. He wants to tell her it isn’t a matter of who is allowed into the pageant and who isn’t. It is a matter of steps. The steps a girl like Betty must take to even be included in the winning conversation, and the much fewer steps a girl like Cheryl Blossom gets to take to be one of the winning three. Cheryl could stand there and do nothing and be a runner-up. And then girls like Toni and Peaches who know beauty pageants are not meant for them, who can look at it as one giant rigged setup and figure there are better things to do with their time, that knew their talent and merit meant nothing to women like Penelope Blossom. Penelope can say otherwise, can repeat it for the camera day after day, but the actions do not match the words.

It is not fair. It’s not just. Betty never mentioned it, not even the night her acceptance packet to Columbia arrived, and it turned out she had received a paltry dean’s scholarship that barely covered a quarter of the full tuition. To Jughead and even Betty’s mother, it was a meaningless token gesture, that partial scholarship, because it didn’t change the fact that Betty would still not be able to cover the other 75%. There were still too many steps.

Diplomatic response or not, even with that barb slipped in the middle, Penelope’s response does not answer the question. The butler finishes pouring Jughead’s cup of tea, and Penelope offers him a dismissive, _thank you, Stanley_. Her imperious tone may have been directed at the butler, but Jughead knew it was meant for him, that she would not be entertaining any more questions about the issue. Jughead stares at the tea in his cup, black and enigmatic like a magic eight-ball. He wants to shake it up for a better answer but knows what he will get for his troubles. _Don’t count on it_.

Jughead begrudgingly concedes defeat. Pushing any further might end this interview prematurely, and he still has a few more questions on the docket. “How are you dealing with the death of one of your contestants, Midge Klump?”

Penelope gathers her features into a pretense of grief and pity, directing these well-practiced emotions towards her own teacup. “It’s such a shame and for someone so young, with so much promise.”

She fiddles with the delicate porcelain handle, the bottom scraping softly against the saucer. “My daughter Cheryl is devastated. They were friends, on the cheerleading squad together, in the school play together. Cheryl, bless her heart, suggested we hold a short memorial for Margaret during the pageant, and of course the committee unanimously agreed. I think it is the best way we can deal with this misfortune, to both mourn and celebrate that poor young girl.

“In fact, I wanted to broach the subject with you, Mr. Jones. Do you have any footage of Midge that we could include in the memorial slideshow? It would be such a big help.”

Jughead shuffles his feet. He doesn’t. He missed his interview with Midge at the track, and he didn’t manage to get any face-to-face time with her at the sign-up meeting. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Blossom. I didn’t get the chance. I might be able to splice some stuff from the sign-ups on Wednesday.”

Penelope falsely brightens, clutching her necklace, a Blossom heirloom. “Would you do that? That would be splendid, Mr. Jones, thank you.”

She seems oddly pleased with this information, that Jughead failed to get any footage of Midge for the pageant. He wonders if he missed something, if he was too focused on Betty and Cheryl and the others and missed something important with Midge. His gut starts talking to him again, twisting with foreboding. Yet, while he has her pleasant as her town-famous punch, he tries his hand at the last topic of interest.

“Mrs. Blossom, this isn’t the first time a pageant contestant has died,” he drops into the conversation like a cherry bomb in the school toilet, and immediately feels like he needs to bolt for the door.

It is her move. She can either feign ignorance or address the unsaid question directly. A smile, killer-calm, plays at the corners of her mouth, and then she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, more practiced grief on her face but not quite reaching her eyes. “No, it is not,” she admits with a defeated nod of agreement. “Some people think this pageant is cursed. In my year, we lost one girl, my dear friend, Samantha Lovett. She took a stage light to the head during rehearsal.”

Wait, that detail didn’t make it into the papers. All the _Register_ said was that Samantha’s death was an accident.

“I almost quit right then and there, but my soon-to-be mother-in-law Nana Rose, she convinced me that the show must go on. It’s terrible, but sometimes I think Samantha’s death gave me that little extra push to win.” That was one way to put it, considering Samantha Lovett was her biggest competition that year. “And that’s what I will impress upon the girls now, to take heart. This should give them more reason to compete, especially in the face of adversity and misfortune.”

Not letting her sweep the subject under the rug with more empty platitudes, Jughead adds, “There were also a few injuries. Two girls had to drop out of the pageant because of them.”

“That was a cursed year, to be sure,” she grants, shaking her head.

“Do you think these misfortunes increased your chance of winning?” All but guaranteed it, Jughead finishes privately.

Penelope balks at that, playing the innocent doe card. Cheryl must have learned it from her mother. “That’s a terrible way to put it, Mr. Jones.”

Jughead braces himself. This one is a shot in the dark. “What about Daryl Doiley?” It did not make it into the papers, but Jughead can connects two dots.

Penelope does not react the way he expects, going gravely still. “Daryl Doiley.”

“Some people think he was involved,” he lies, keying on Penelope’s reaction. In Daryl’s obituary, he was listed as an active and devoted member of the Riverdale High drama club, an essential member of the stage crew. If Samantha Lovett died from a stage light to the head, it wasn’t too much of a stretch. Based on the grim look on Penelope’s face, Jughead knows he is tugging on the right thread.

Penelope seems to catch his train of thought and visibly relaxes, like she is hoping it will dispel his hunch, but her reaction has already set off alarm bells in his head. She knows something about Daryl Doiley. Jughead can feel it in his gut, and if there is one thing Jughead knows, his gut is never wrong.

Penelope recrosses her legs and sits up straighter. “Mr. Jones, I don’t think these questions are very appropriate for a recruitment video. Do you?”

Jughead swallows his retort that this is also for his school project. She levels her gaze with him, all pretense of civility dropped. “I have given you the privilege of shooting this video because I think you are well-suited to the task, but if you cannot _stay on task_ , then I don’t see how you can continue to have that privilege?” She reasons rhetorically, smoothing her hands over her plaid skirt, a deep red. “Do you understand?”

Jughead leans back on the loveseat, running his tongue over the point of his incisor. He definitely tugged the right thread.

“Can you stay on task, Mr. Jones?” Penelope asks again, as deceptively calm as a real cougar.

Jughead wishes he were wearing his beanie, and he doesn’t have the camera in front of his face to protect him. He doesn’t have anything to protect him at the moment, not a shred of evidence, nothing but the absolute certainty he feels in his stomach. He must play this hand, though, if he wants to get to the end with all his pieces and parts intact, Betty’s too, probably, so he tries to keep his voice as level and contrite as possible when he apologizes to Mrs. Blossom for getting off track. Penelope makes him swear to stay focused on the recruitment video.

“I promise, Mrs. Blossom.” 


	4. love him so much it just turns to hate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: A scene in this chapter is set in a morgue. Heads up for mentions of dead bodies.

“Hey, perve, come inside,” his mother calls through the open window. Jug cannot help the instinct to duck his head beneath the sill, but he stupidly leaves the camera hanging on the edge. “Don’t stick the camera in the window, you weirdo! Knock on the door like a normal person. Who raised you? Wolves?” His mother shouts, tossing a hairbrush out the window, and it goes sailing over the top of his head.

He groans and trudges up the trailer steps, yanking the screen door open with not a little petulance. As soon as he spotted their mothers in the kitchen, Jughead hoped Betty would spare him by coming out on her own. If she doesn’t come out soon, she is going to be late for work.

Jug shuffles into the kitchen, hiding the camcorder behind his back.

His mother is seated in one of the two salon chairs, her legs crossed with a copy of _Cosmo_ balanced on her knees. With a cigarette teetering precariously on her lower lip, Alice asks if he is looking for Betty. She wraps another lock of Gladys’s hair in a hot roller and gives Jughead a dissecting onceover. Either woman is a handful in her own right. Put them together and – Jughead can only stomach so much.

He shrugs. Leaning against the refrigerator, he is unwilling to step past the halfway point between the salon chairs and the front door. Whenever these two are involved, he needs to have a quick exit strategy. “She told me to meet her here.”

Gladys licks her finger and turns the page on her magazine, regarding him over the edge of one press-on nail. “Tough luck, kid, she got called into work.”

Jughead twists back and forth on his heels, faking indecision before he turns back towards the door to go meet her at the funeral home, but then his mother works herself up into another one of her infamous rants. “Business is booming for the Curdles in the wonderful town of Riverdale. The bodies keep a-rolling.” She takes a drag of her cigarette and points the lit end at Jughead, sealing him to the kitchen floor. If he tried to leave now, he would never hear the end of it. “If I had known what I know now, I would’ve opened my own hotel for stiffs ages ago.” 

Alice tugs on a roller. “Where would I be without my star nail tech?”

“Your only nail tech,” Gladys charitably reminds her, tapping the fingers of her other hand against the magazine. Her radioactive orange nails click against the glossy page. “All I’m saying is if I’d known Riverdale was gonna be a body mill, I would’ve gone into a different business, the right business.” She turns her shrewd gaze back on Jughead. “Speaking of the right business, you been to the Blossoms yet, kid?”

“Yeah, yesterday,” he acknowledges, holding up his handy-cam. He asks his mom if he can press record, figuring if he has to be stuck here until his mom finishes venting, then he might as well get something out of it.

With her cigarette caught in the fork between index and middle finger, she manages to primp the finished curls on one side of her head without setting her head on fire. “Just make sure to get my good side,” she tells him, winking at the camera.

He rolls his eyes and walks to the other side of the kitchen, taking a seat on the edge of the stylist station, careful not to knock over the various salon accoutrements. Holding up the camcorder to get both women in the shot, he asks Alice how she feels about Betty competing in the pageant.

Alice opens her mouth to answer the question, but Gladys interjects, using her cigarette as a pointer again. Jughead chews the inside of his cheek, catching Alice’s quick glare. “Betty is gonna be the next Diane Sawyer. You heard it here first,” Gladys proclaims, tapping ash off in the empty Genesee can next to her chair. “And Betty deserves to win. Not that rich bitch Cheryl Blossom.”

Alice pulls on another roller, none too gently this time, and Gladys winces, rounding on her. His mother is not great at using her inside voice, and she rails on Alice, “What?” It’s true.”

Before Alice yanks on his mother’s hair again and starts a tiff, Jughead asks, “Do you think Cheryl is going to win?” Though they are best friends, both their mothers get into at least one fight a week, and he doesn’t want to be the cause of the next one. It’s only Sunday, and the pageant is less than a week away.

His mother turns back to the camera, her face pinching. Jughead is very familiar with the sour look, her mouth puckering with derision. “You’re talking about the richest family in a small town. It’s front page news one of them takes a shit. No kidding. The Blossoms own the damned local paper!” She practically shouts, throwing her hands up.

In another life, the _Riverdale Register_ belonged to the Coopers. It had been in their family since the paper’s founding. Alice, at one point, had been a reporter herself, and Jug sometimes wonders if she passed her investigative habits down to Betty or if it was simply in their blood. Now, the _Register_ was no better than an advertising rag for the Blossoms.

“Mrs. Cooper,” Jughead bids, getting her attention. “Do you remember the year you competed in the pageant?”

Alice straightens, placing on hand on Gladys’s shoulder like she is balancing herself. “How could I forget?” Gladys, sensing some unspoken shift in her friend, does not interrupt this time.

Jughead sends his weight onto the other leg. “Could I ask you a few questions about it?”

He feels something twining through his ankles and looks down to see Betty’s cat Caramel weaving about his legs. The tabby arches into his calf and purrs. Jughead wants to reach down and give him an affectionate scritch under the chin like always, but then it would mess up his shot.

Caramel mews loudly when Jughead refuses to give pets, and Alice steps forward to hush the creature, using her bare foot to sweep him back into the living room. “Needy thing,” she gripes, returning to the salon chair and checking the temperature on the remaining rollers in Gladys’s hair. Remembering someone asked her something, she looks at Jughead and gives him a come-hither motion with her non-smoking hand. “Ask away.”

Gladys looks up at him through her eyelashes with an unsaid warning not to push too far, and then she returns to the magazine in her lap, tapping more ash off into the empty can of Genesee. The 1979 beauty pageant seems to be a sore subject for most of the people who survived it.

“Do you – um, do you remember Samantha Lovett?”

Alice pinches a roller in his mother’s hair, her other hand returned to its position resting on Gladys’s shoulder. “Sure, I remember Sammy,” Alice remarks wistfully, and then she turns a shrewder eye on Jughead, commending, “You did your research.”

Gladys snorts, “Kudos, kid, you actually got on the right track for once.”

He was his mother’s son after all, but Gladys never had much patience for the more farfetched of her son’s conspiracies. Jughead was often rewarded with an eyeroll or an exasperated sigh from his mother when he went off on another rant at the dinner table on some new crackpot theory about “fluoride” in the drinking water or how the Blossoms were playing the maple syrup black market. The latter was still an ongoing investigation, but Jughead chose to keep it on the down low until he had enough proof.

“Were Penelope and Samantha friends?” Jughead asks. Penelope had her version of the events, but it was always good to get a second opinion.

Alice and Gladys both gape at him. “Did she say that?”

It always feels slightly disorienting to be in both their spotlights at the same time, but Jug covers up some of his discomfort with a tilt of his head in consideration and then a slow nod.

“Penelope _hated_ Sammy,” Alice seethes, her tone venomous.

“But everybody else loved Sammy,” Gladys adds, balancing out Alice’s acidity with a dash of sugar. “She was easy to love. There are some people that get along with everybody. Sammy was one of those people.” Much like Betty, Jughead considers. “If Penelope ruled with fear, Sammy ruled with kindness, and you knew it was genuine. Not like Penelope, not by a longshot.”

“Alice, were you there?” Jughead inquires hesitantly.

“When that stage light fell on her?” Alice clarifies, and then nods. She folds her arms, palming one elbow as she regards the end of her lit cigarette. “It was a dress rehearsal, three days before the pageant. She was in the middle of her Ophelia monologue. I didn’t see it happen, but I heard it. One moment her voice was echoing through the gymnasium, and then there was this thudding sound.” She shudders, taking a shaky drag off her cigarette. “It makes me sick to think about, that sound. We came out from behind the curtain, and there she was crumpled up on the middle of the stage like a sack of potatoes.”

Gladys reaches out and pats Alice’s arm, turning her gaze on the camera. Her angry, bitter suspicions are decades old but no less potent. “There’s no such thing as coincidence, kid.”

“Didn’t they say it was an accident?” Jughead reasons.

Gladys scoffs. “Right, the world’s an imperfect place. Screws fall out all the time,” she parrots, her press-on nails clicking as her hand mimes talking at the camera. “Barely anyone questioned the stage crew.”

Emboldened by his private theory, Jughead drops the final buzz word. “Daryl Doiley was part of the stage crew.”

Gladys golf claps. Jughead feels a little fuzzy being on the receiving end of her esteem. It also makes him feel like he really is on the right track with Daryl.

“Sure was, and that sneaky bastard was up on the catwalk right before that stage light fell on Sammy’s head,” she claims, dropping her spent cigarette in the empty beer can. “You want to know what didn’t make it into the papers? Of course, it was an open secret at school that Penelope Blossom was stepping out on Clifford with Daryl Doiley. What a coincidence, huh?

“And the cops can’t insert tab A into slot B without someone literally holding their hand. Trust me, _I know_ ,” she says, giving Jughead a meaningful look, and he wishes he didn’t get the double entendre, looking up at the ceiling with a grimace.

Yes, his mother dated Tom Keller for a hot second after the sheriff’s divorce and bless Jughead if he could forget it for one moment. When Jughead lost the sole on one of his boots, his mother gave him permission to dig out an old pair belonging to his father. Walking into her bedroom and seeing the handcuffs on the headboard, one cuffed to the wrought iron, the other empty, and Jughead connecting all the dots about what had probably been locked up inside the cuff only the night before.

He cannot help groaning _mom_ on camera and reminds himself to edit it out later. She throws her hands up and promises to keep a lid on it, reaching for her pack of Marlboros.

Alice bids her to light one for her as well, and Gladys bites out two. His mother lights both and takes a drag to get them started before handing the second to her friend.

He forgets sometimes that Gladys and Alice hated each other in high school. Jughead privately wonders if it has something to do with his dad, but after what happened with Hal and Alice moving back to the Southside, it must be water under the bridge now. Betty decided it was simply commiseration over their equally shitty husbands, but Jughead sometimes gets the hint there might be something else to it, something that goes way back before the Coopers moved back to the Southside. He wonders if they always hated each other in high school, but he has never had the balls to ask.

Getting right down to the brass tacks on the other matter at hand, though, he asks point-blank, “You think Daryl Doiley had something to do with Samantha’s death?”

Her customary cigarette balanced on her lower lip like it is her Olympic talent, Alice explains, “As your mother said, there is no such thing as coincidence. I told the cops I saw Daryl up there before the stage light fell, but did they look into it? Hell no.”

She checks the temperature of Gladys’s remaining rollers and starts undoing them. “No one was going to listen to some poor white trash girl from the Southside, certainly not a Smith. Penelope flat out contradicted me, said Daryl was nowhere near the catwalk before the ‘accident,’” she explains, placing physical air quotes around the word before tossing the rollers into their drawer next to Jug’s hip.

Gladys jokes dryly, “Penelope must give one hell of a blowjob to get that kid to commit murder.” Jughead knows he must look exactly how he feels, like a kid whose mind short circuits on the words that just came out of his mother’s mouth. He is glad to be the one behind the camera.

Then, like she didn’t just imply someone would kill for good head, she points at an image in her copy of _Cosmo_ and tells Alice, “See that’s the one I’m talking about, that coloring. You think you could get it to do that?”

Alice leans over her shoulder to get a closer look at the style. “Sure, I’ll have to order some new dyes.”

Jughead composes himself, knowing his face is beet red. He thought he would be immune to his mother’s colorful commentary by now, but she really has no filter. She never has, not even for her own children, and her excuse was always, _I would rather be honest and crass than lie my ass off to make others feel comfortable around what I’m not. And don’t you two ever forget it_. It’s endearing in its own way, but it doesn’t make Jughead any less uncomfortable. He has too vivid an imagination for his mother’s baser quips.

Feeling like he has partial control of the blood in his face again, Jughead gets them back on track with the next follow-up question. “Do you think that had anything to do with Daryl’s suicide?”

Both Gladys and Alice glance up from the magazine at the same time. Alice unrolls another curler from Gladys’s hair. “The timing couldn’t have been more perfect,” she points out. He doesn’t know if she means the curler or the suicide, and then she continues, “Daryl kills himself a week after Penelope announces her engagement to Clifford Blossom.”

Another detail Jughead missed in his research, and now he regrets not bringing Betty in sooner. She wouldn’t have missed that connection. She was always much better at extrapolating in the right direction and making logical leaps where Jughead ended up chasing his own tail. It is why he had the bad habit of charging in head-first and attacking the subjects of his investigation before he had all the pieces of the puzzle. He is doing his best not to make the same mistakes with this one.

Tipping her magazine closed and tossing it onto the dining room table, Gladys freely offers up another demonstration of her natural talent for levity in true Jones fashion. “That’s gotta smart. Can you imagine? Kid made a deal with the devil, hopes for great head, gets pegged instead.”

Jughead blanches and snaps the viewing window closed. “Um, thanks, you both. This was really helpful.”

Gladys pouts at him in the mirror, primping her curls. “You’re gonna need a stronger stomach if you’re gonna make it to the end of this pageant, kid. This ride is just beginning,” she cautions, waggling her brows appreciatively at Alice for the perfect Olivia Newton John curls.

“Mrs. Cooper,” Jughead bids with some hesitation. “Doesn’t this worry you a little? Having Betty in the pageant?”

There does seem to be some jinx hanging over the pageant, and with what happened to Midge, what if Betty is next? If Penelope is the one behind these “accidents”, wouldn’t Alice be worried about her youngest daughter? Alice hasn’t mentioned yet whether Penelope went after her the year they both competed in the pageant, and that might be why Alice isn’t concerned about Betty. At this point, it is hard to tell if Penelope has it out for Betty yet, but with what happened at the meeting last Friday that Jughead missed, he wonders if that could be considered the official declaration of war. 

Standing next to his mother, Alice fluffs up her own curls, squaring her shoulders at her reflection. “Do you know what I was like before I moved here, Jughead?” He senses the change in her tone, glancing sidelong at him. She is speaking to him like she is speaking to an adult.

“Gladys probably remembers.” His mother’s drawn out _mhmm_ tells him everything he needs to know. “You spend enough years running around trying to control everything, worrying about everything, being scared all the time that things are going to fall apart, and then things – poof – blow up in your face anyway,” she explains, raising her fist and letting her fingers unfurl in a swift motion of wistful futility.

“I’ve tried to teach my children that is no way to go through life. You know, my poor Polly, she never really listened, but Betty has always been different.”

“She’s like you,” Gladys comments warmly, tucking some hair behind Alice’s ear, but Alice shakes her head, dislodging the errant curl.

“No, she’s better than me. She doesn’t let fear dictate her life. She doesn’t just go willingly traipsing off the cliff either,” she asserts, swiping her hand out into some vague distance. “She has a good head on her shoulders. She’s aware, and she’s careful, and well,” she pauses here, looking at Jughead directly. “We’re watching out for her, too. She’s got people looking out for her. She’s got you.”

Jughead wishes he had kept recording, even though none of that would be useable in his documentary. It is a rare compliment coming from Alice Cooper, as good as he would ever likely get again. He wants to argue that of course he has Betty's back, always, but then his mother rounds on him, grabbing him by the front of his jacket with both hands and jostling him with rough affection. “Isn’t that what you’re good for, kiddo?” She grinds the heel of her hand into the top of his beanie for good measure.

Jughead gripes, ducking away from her and escaping back towards the front door. “I’m gonna go find Betty.”

Gladys narrows her eyes at him, and it feels like a threat. “Yeah, do your job.”

* * *

Jug does not mean to do it, but someone must have WD-40ed the morgue doors, so when he waltzes soft-footed into what Betty affectionately calls the salon and announces himself from right behind her, she nearly leaps out of her shoes. Whipping around in alarm, she almost knocks the camcorder right out of his hands. Luckily, he has the strap around his wrist and a good grip on the housing, but he might keep the sudden eruption in the final cut.

Gasping, she pushes at his shoulder to put some distance between the camera and her shocked face. Betty turns away with one hand on her throat where her heart must surely be clawing its way up into her mouth, and while Jughead feels kind of bad for doing something she has warned him time and time again not to do, he always sort of enjoys getting her riled up. “Juggie, what is the first rule of the morgue?”

“Don’t sneak up on the living,” he recites dutifully, and then, “Sorry.” She can tell by the look on his face that he doesn’t really mean it and glares at him, but it doesn’t have much heat.

Her headphones are wrapped around her neck, which means her mind was probably preoccupied before he got here. She usually spends her shifts tapping around the morgue while she works. He can hear music coming through the ear pads, but he doesn’t spot the steamy pink she gets on her cheeks from dancing.

“Everything okay?” He wonders, letting one finger flick at the limp headphones around her neck.

She glances down at the Walkman clipped to her hip and presses stop. “Yeah, I guess I was lost in my mind there.” He can imagine it’s easy to do when the present company doesn’t offer much in the way of conversation.

“No, I should’ve knocked or something,” he excuses. He really did know better. “Your mom told me you got called in early.”

“Yeah, we had a few more come in this morning, and one of the families wants a rush job,” she explains, shouldering around him to finish the eye shadow on Mrs. Beazeley.

Betty shoots a meaningful look at the camcorder. “You know you’re gonna need to get releases from the families if you want to shoot anything in the salon.”

He loves that is how Betty sees her job, as giving the deceased one last day of pampering, complete with full hair and makeup. It still smells like old lady perfume with undertones of embalming fluid in here, but Betty always manages to preserve their dignity, walking the line between spirited and deferent. Some might find her cheery affect disrespectful, but he thinks if it were him, he would like to know the person preparing the body of his loved one sees it as an honor, as a service. 

He nods, knowing he will have to hunt down Dr. Curdle later and discuss the specifics about using this footage. He could edit out any faces, if he needed to, so he focuses the viewfinder on Betty as much as possible.

Giving Mrs. Beazeley a wary look and a wide berth, he edges back towards the medical cabinets. Betty might be perfectly at ease in the morgue, but Jughead gets a little skeeved out by the stillness down here. While he appreciates Betty’s work, he finds they look too much like mannequins after she gets done with them, eerily similar to those dolls he saw in a wax museum once on a road trip when they were twelve. “She – um, she looks good,” he points out, hoping it sounds like praise.

Betty tilts her head to the side as she regards Mrs. Beazeley’s eyeshadow, using her ring finger to smooth the edges out into the woman’s brow. “My mom said I could make a dead woman look like the life of the party. She’s the one that taught me hair and makeup, though, so there you go. You know my two favorite people competed in pageants,” she explains with a fond smile, looking up at Jughead and ignoring the camera.

“Yeah, who?” He asks, feeling a smile tickling the corners of his mouth, like her good humor is infectious.

“My mom,” she provides, like it is obvious, and then even more obvious. “And Diane Sawyer. Course I hope I end up more like Diane Sawyer than my mom,” she adds, and then her eyes grow wide, like she didn’t mean to say that out loud. “Oh my god, Juggie, don’t let my mom see that bit. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s okay, Betty,” he assures her. “I, yeah, I know what you meant.” Though they love their mothers without question, neither are very keen on ending up like their parents.

“How many parttime jobs do you have?” He wonders, playing ignorant, and Betty gets the hint that he is slipping back into impartial documentarian mode.

“Two,” she supplies, pleased with Mrs. Beazeley’s makeup and carefully replacing the white sheet. “I’m lucky to have after-school jobs where I can practice my talent,” she muses, clicking over to the next gurney. He tips the lens down to the floor to capture her black tap shoes. She invested in a new pair for the pageant.

Betty sets the makeup palette on the side of the gurney and reaches for the clipboard with notes from Dr. Curdle about the family’s wishes. “Sorry, Juggie, I have to finish this one before we can go look for the coroner’s reports. If Curdle comes back and Mr. Pattinson isn’t ready for this evening’s viewing, there goes my job. It shouldn’t take too long.”

He can tell she is biting her tongue while she skims the notes, coming up with a plan for Mr. Pattinson’s makeover, and he catches the pink tip of it peeking out from between her lips. It is frighteningly adorable, and Jughead almost wants to power down the camera. It suddenly feels too private.

He thinks so much of this documentary is beginning to hit too close to home, in more ways than one. Jughead has always been a good observer, a student of human behavior, even though that rarely translates well into being able to act appropriately himself. But this documentary has given him license to start peeling back some of the faces on his peers, his own family, his friends and his enemies, and he realizes how much he missed. He wonders what the hell he was doing before, thinking he was a good observer.

Perhaps it is some unsaid magic of the camera, that film, like photographs, does not lie because he can see it during editing, those nervous ticks and mannerisms that might be imperceptible or easily overlooked during casual conversation. All of them are immortalized in the viewfinder, open to review and then reinterpretation. He thinks he is starting to see them now, before re-watching the tapes, before editing, seeing them all on his own, seeing more than before. The camera might be a better teacher than the naked eye.

Betty hums pleasantly, and his fingers start fiddling with the stop button. She sets the clipboard back in its holder on the end of the gurney and reaches for the sheet, peeling it back. By Betty’s reaction, it must not be Mr. Pattinson. The blood drains from her face, and Jughead doesn’t think he has ever seen anyone go instantly white like that. When Jughead looks down, he sees Adam Chisholm on the metal slab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I split chapters again, sorry for the upped chapter count. 
> 
> I would love to hear what you think/feel/like/dislike, though, if you have a moment. I'm always grateful for the feedback <3


	5. they really want you (and i do too)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to _ArsenicPanda_ for kindly helping out on this chapter.
> 
> WARNING: brief instance of animal cruelty after the first break.

“Betty.” It comes out in a rush of concern, pushing off the medical cabinet at the same time he snaps the viewing window closed.

She looks at the body with confusion, staring down at the boy that was living and breathing and laughing with her only yesterday. Jughead can see he hasn’t been autopsied yet, which means he is in the wrong wing.

He wants to tell her this is not an episode of _The Twilight Zone_. He can see the body, too.

“Betty,” he tries again, taking a step towards her.

“I left early,” she says, voice low but puzzled. “He said he was going for a hike with some friends,” she adds, trailing off.

Then, Betty seems to snap herself out of some snowballing thought. She plucks up the clipboard and walks over to another gurney. She confirms it is Mr. Pattinson and switches the clipboards.

Jughead steps forward cautiously, glancing at Adam’s clipboard in her hand as she shuffles back. Her metal-soled shoes tap against the linoleum like little firecrackers, too jaunty for the mood. Betty steps out of her shoes, giving them a small, irritated kick.

Jughead sticks his foot out to stop their journey across the linoleum. Tap shoes are not cheap, he thinks, picking them up off the floor. “Betty, you want me to get your other shoes?” he offers, noticing she is currently absorbed in the contents of Adam’s clipboard.

Her eyes cut up, remembering she is not alone. He thinks maybe there is a flicker of relief on her face. She nods, her thanks and apology morphing into one practically gibberish compound word.

Jughead picks up her tap shoes and ventures out of the morgue, locating the supply cabinet where she keeps her backpack and regular shoes. Setting her tap shoes down next to a jug of bleach, he considers her reaction to seeing Adam on that gurney.

Betty is one of those rare individuals who can handle being around dead bodies for extended periods of time. It is what makes her so good at her job. She even claims she doesn’t mind the smell too much. She also insists they are the best practice audience. _No tougher audience than a crowd of stiffs_.

He would not call it the most advantageous virtue, but Betty is accustomed to seeing the bodies of people she knows, even people she might have seen the day before at the breakfast counter in Pop’s. Yet, there is a big difference between seeing the body of the 80-year-old Mr. Covens, their elementary school music teacher, and the 18-year-old corpse of the boy she went out with less than 24 hours earlier. Betty isn’t the type to place more weight on one death over another, but some connections might naturally hit harder.

Maybe she did have feelings for Adam, or the beginnings of feelings, and Betty doesn’t catch feelings, not easily. Moreover, she is less inclined to chase after them. Her priorities rarely lean that way. However, Jughead cannot help boggle at the idea that the first time Betty tries, the boy ends up dead.

Yes, Adam would have siphoned off some of the limited and dwindling time Jughead has left to spend with Betty. Jughead recognized that, but Betty doesn’t deserve to believe her feelings or best intentions are jinxed.

He snatches up her sneakers and returns to the morgue where Betty is still reviewing Adam’s clipboard. He comes up next to her and nudges her hip with the toes of her Converse. She thanks him, closing the clipboard and setting it back in the holder at the end of Adam’s gurney.

While Betty laces up her sneakers, he wades carefully into the tumult of Betty’s thoughts, “How did he die?”

She glances up at him, chewing her lip. “They discovered his body near Tumbledown Falls around 6:30. Single arrow wound to the chest, they think based on minimal damage surrounding the wound, but no arrow. Moose and Reggie are on there as witnesses, but they didn’t see who did it. They only found the body.”

Jughead crosses his arms, boggling on that one. “An arrow? Really?”

Betty nods, reciting aloud, “Sheriff’s notes listed it as a popular turkey hunting spot. It’s the end of the spring season. Shoot and run.” Her blunted affect worries him.

“Betty, an arrow,” he reiterates, placing emphasis on the method of injury, hoping to jolt her out of it.

Her gaze is sharp, a blink of the investigating bug, but then it flickers and dies. “It’s not far-fetched, Jug. Bowhunting is really common here. Adam was in the archery club himself. More people own bows than guns in this town.” She finishes tying the bows on her sneakers and returns to Adam’s gurney.

He snorts. “It’s a great cover up.”

“It is,” she agrees, carefully replacing the sheet over Adam’s gray face. Kicking the locks on the wheels, she shoves the gurney in the direction of the cold room to get it going. “But, we’re not going to find out much until after the autopsy, so keep it in your pants, Jones,” she quips back at him suddenly, a hint of humor in her voice.

There she is, he thinks with not a little relief. Her renewed interest in this total lack of coincidence sets him at ease even as his heart races because this cannot be boiled down to just another hapless accident. If that’s true, what does that mean for Betty?

He waits for her to get back from the cold room, and then she immediately beelines for Mr. Pattinson’s gurney, retrieving her makeup kit. She reviews Curdle’s notes and sets to work matching foundations.

“Betty,” he tries again. He doesn’t know where her head is at, but she did say Mr. Pattinson has a viewing this evening. She still has a job to do.

“Are you sad about Adam?” he asks finally. He doesn’t want Betty to feel like she can’t talk to him about this stuff, even if he isn’t the best person to talk to about it, even if he isn’t sure he wants to hear about it. She is his best friend. She will always be his best friend.

“He was a nice guy,” she sums up sadly, knowing she will never get to know Adam past that. It was over before it started. “We had fun.” She finds the right foundation and unscrews the top, dabbing some on the meat of her thumb. Focusing on her work seems to help her recenter.

“It’s crazy how quickly these things happen. Sometimes I tell myself it’s a hazard of the trade,” she says with a sigh. He wonders what that means for her, for letting herself like someone or start to like someone, if that was how Betty saw relationships in general. Everyone was bound to end up on her table eventually.

He wants to ask if that means she would stop trying, but then she looks back at Jughead, just now noticing the camcorder idling on the counter, the red recording light dim. That prompts her to ask, “When did you leave the Blossom’s yesterday?”

He thinks back on it. “A little after three.”

Jughead was at the Blossoms for less than an hour. He left immediately after Penelope gave him a tour of the grounds, right around the time she offered to show him the family cemetery. After Jughead mentioned Daryl Doiley, every word out of Penelope’s mouth sounded like a veiled threat. The last thing he wanted to see was the Blossom’s private graveyard, so he politely declined and hightailed it out of there.

Betty nods, and he knows she is folding that information into her growing body of evidence. So far most of their hunches exist inside their respective heads. They should sit down and formally compare notes like always, with hard copies, roll out the bulletin board stuffed in the corner of the _Blue and Gold_ office. He resolves to ask her to meet him in their office on Tuesday before school. Things always clear up after they get the chance to pick each other’s brains on the subject.

Betty smooths out the foundation under Mr. Pattinson’s jaw, careful not to let it cake in the old man’s folds and wrinkles. Just as Jughead is about to formalize plans to work on this in the _Blue and Gold,_ she glances up at him and intimates, “I left the swimming hole at about four-thirty.”

Jughead seats himself on the counter edge, working out the timeline. “You said they found his body at 6:30?”

She nods. “We won’t know until Curdle gets at estimated TOD, but that sounds a little too convenient to me. Tumbledown Falls is only a couple miles from Thornhill.”

“Penelope would have to know he was there,” Jughead reasons.

“Cheryl knew he was going to be there,” Betty counters.

Cheryl was president of the Riverdale Dead-Eyes. She was an expert marksman with a bow and could strike the bull’s eye from 100 yards. She made junior master bowman at thirteen, the youngest in the county. Then, Jughead considers that Penelope is also known to be proficient with a bow. 

“You think both Cheryl and Penelope are in on it.” It doesn’t sound too far-fetched. Hell, it might be a longstanding tradition in the Blossom family, their idea of mother-daughter bonding time. “Betty, I’m worried.”

“About what?”

“You.” More than ever now because why would Cheryl or Penelope target Adam if not for Betty. Had they expected her to be there on that hike with Adam, too, perhaps around the corner of a tree, downing the buck first and then aiming for the doe?

“You think I should quit the pageant?” He can hear the friction in her voice.

Jughead quickly tries to disabuse her of that notion, arguing gently, “I just think we have to be more careful from here on out. If these aren’t accidents and someone is killing people to influence the pageant, I think it would be a good idea for us to tread lightly.”

Betty deflates, dropping her hands at her sides. Clutching the tube of foundation and makeup sponge, she wonders aloud, “You ever hope that all this craziness is really just one terrible coincidence?”

He wants nothing more than for Betty to compete in and win some stupid beauty pageant without the threat of death hanging over her head, but, “I think I’ve learned growing up in Riverdale that there is no such thing as coincidence.”

She tosses the tube and sponge back in her kit and wipes her hands on her scrubs. “Okay, we’re looking at those coroner’s reports right now. I have to know,” she declares, striding toward the morgue doors without checking to see if Jughead follows. He does. He always will.

To get to the third floor where Curdle’s office resides, they must pass through the reposing room. He forgets how eerily quiet funeral homes can be, and the presence of the three perfectly spaced coffins surrounded by giant bouquets of roses and calla lilies gives him unsettling déjà vu from an episode of _Buffy_ he and Betty watched last week.

Though death is as common in Riverdale as it is in the fictional town of Derry, Maine, Jughead should count himself lucky that he hasn’t been to many funerals. Midge’s funeral would be his first in six years, and he still doesn’t know what to wear for it.

His last funeral was his ‘Uncle’ Jerry’s when Jug was twelve. Jerry was his mom’s last serious boyfriend, and while Jughead liked the man enough, he still found the open casket uncomfortable. He also didn’t enjoy his mother sobbing nonstop and felt the entire time that she was not his mother. Gladys Jones did not cry like that. Gladys Jones did not cry at all. Of course, now, much older, he wishes he had comforted his mother instead of avoided her, but tween Jughead was not the most emotionally mature out of the bunch.

He also could not get over the fact that the wake looked like the inside of a florist shop. It gave him terrible hay fever, and he had to sit in the funeral home’s foyer for most of the service. Now, navigating through the thicket of bouquets, he wonders whether the preponderance of flowers was meant to combat the smell or simply symbolized the impermanence of beauty and the brevity of life. Sneezing, he knocks into one of the standing wreaths, and the spindly legs of the tripod holding it up wobble and buckle, sending the whole thing toppling to the floor in a shower of pollen and petals.

“Jughead,” Betty snaps, turning to help reconstruct the stand, locking the legs back into place. “Do I have to leave you in the morgue?”

“No,” he blurts out. The last place he wants to be alone is in the morgue. “I’ll keep it together,” he swears, brushing uselessly at the crumpled edge of the wreath.

Betty presses her tongue into her cheek but lets him stay. Unlike him, Betty is more at ease walking through the home. She barely glances at the caskets. He wonders if this place has ever fazed her, even in the beginning.

When they reach the locked door leading up to the third floor, she produces a bobby pin from her ponytail and carefully inserts it into the knob lock. He really should get her to teach him a thing or two about lockpicking one of these days, but they investigate together so much, he hasn’t felt the need to ask her yet. But, she will leave Riverdale eventually, probably sooner rather than later, and then Jughead will need to find his own way through investigations, alone.

The knob lock gives up easy, and she swings open the door into the dark stairway leading to the Curdles’ living quarters. This is not the first time they have broken into Curdle’s office, and sometimes Jughead wonders if Betty purposely applied for the mortuary makeup artist position so she could have unfettered access to Curdle’s archives. Well, unfettered being the relative term.

When they get into Curdle’s office, Betty doesn’t beat around the bush, zeroing in on the filing cabinet. She picks the small lock at the top and opens the drawer labeled D-F. Skimming quickly through the folders, she plucks up Doiley, D. She always makes it look so easy that Jughead is both disturbed and admiring of her audacity.

“Weird,” she murmurs, flipping through Doiley’s report.

“What?”

“They found cyanide in his system, which isn’t strange considering the cause of death. There is cyanide in car exhaust, but most people die from the carbon monoxide first.” Betty skims through the autopsy results, her gaze narrowing. “Daryl had blue lips. Carbon monoxide poisoning doesn’t always cause blue lips, and his oxygen saturation didn’t match what someone would see with carbon monoxide poisoning.”

He forgets sometimes how smart Betty really is, that this isn’t just an after-school job for her. She remembers and absorbs far more than even the Curdles probably know, and sometimes Jughead wants to subtly nudge her away from being the next Diane Sawyer. He thinks she would make a much better real-life Dana Scully. 

“You think he might have ingested cyanide before he went into the garage? Maybe the car exhaust was just supposed to be the last nail in the coffin,” Jughead supposes.

“Or someone poisoned him and then put him in the car to make it look like a suicide,” Betty counters, closing the folder and replacing it in the drawer.

She relocks the filing cabinet and then abruptly turns into Jughead, unaware he was still standing right behind her. It startles them both, and Jughead tries to clumsily dance out of her way at the same time she knocks into him again.

Her entire front is pressed flush to his for a moment that he feels so much of her through her thin scrubs. For a blink, Jughead realizes Betty has grown up. He feels how much and swallows with some difficulty, trying to slide out of her way once more. He accidentally steps on her foot, and she yelps more in surprise than pain. Jughead finally grabs her shoulders and steadies her, so he can step aside and let her pass.

“Ever heard of personal space,” she snipes mildly, a breathless chuckle following.

“It’s the small print,” he excuses, rubbing at the tightness forming in his chest again. His whole face feels hot, and he blames it on the Curdle’s furnace. It may be freezing in the morgue, but it feels like they are in the middle of the desert upstairs. Jughead yanks off his beanie and uses it to fan himself.

Betty watches him, and he senses a different kind of speculation in her eyes than the one brought about by Daryl Doiley’s coroner report. It feels like he might be in for an inquisition, and while most of the time Jughead prefers Betty say what she is thinking rather than bottle it up, he is only a smidge concerned with what she might ask right now.

Gesturing vaguely at the door, he cuts off her impending inquiry. “Don’t you have work to do? Mr. Pattinson isn’t going to look like he just mowed the lawn all on his own.”

Betty smirks and rolls her eyes, shelving her questions. “Like he came in from gardening, Jug,” she corrects, heading for the hallway.

“Same difference,” he argues, following her back downstairs.

Clipping down the stairs into the morgue, Jughead finally asks, “So, um, I know we’re both pretty booked tomorrow, but I was wondering if Tuesday, maybe before school, you wanted to go over this in the _Blue and Gold_? Maybe compare notes?”

Betty stops at the bottom and spins on her heels toward him. “Good idea,” she points out, and adds, “We should probably request the police report from that death, too, the girl who died in the pageant the year Penelope competed. And Doiley’s if there is one.”

“I’ll stop by the sheriff’s on my way home,” he promises, drawing out an appreciative smile from Betty. “Speaking of which, I should probably head back. I have to finish that essay for Phillips.”

In the morgue, Jughead starts gathering his things. Betty is applying flesh-toned eyeshadow to the bags around Mr. Pattinson’s eyes when she remembers something. “Hey, Jug, can you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“I forgot to remind my mom to take the clothes out of the washer. Can you tell her to do it when you get back?”

He flashes a two-fingered salute and leaves her to her work.

* * *

When Jughead gets back to Sunnyside, Alice’s station wagon isn’t in the carpark. He cups his hand over the kitchen window and peeks into the salon, but neither Alice nor his mother are anywhere to be seen. Hopping up the stairs, he waltzes into the trailer, announcing himself just in case, but the trailer is empty. No one responds, so he beelines for the laundry room behind the salon.

He notices the side door is open, the wind whistling through the screen. It isn’t uncommon, especially this close to summer. Alice doesn’t tolerate heat well. However, while most people in Sunnyside leave their doors unlocked, it isn’t like Alice to leave a door wide open.

Jughead also notices the dryer is on. Alice could have already moved the laundry, but Jughead spots the little green _done_ light illuminated on the washer. He cracks the lid on the washer and there are Betty’s soggy darks plastered to the insides of the barrel. Though he cannot speak for Alice, Betty wouldn’t mind piggybacking on whatever her mother started in the dryer, he reasons, yanking open the door.

Jughead expects to catch some clothes spilling from the drum, but as the dryer tumbles to a stop, he recognizes it isn’t clothes in the dryer. His breath seizes up in his chest, and he drops to his knees to reach into the drum. His hands touch soft fur, gingerly feeling around under his chin, his chest.

_Thank god_ , he thinks with a sigh, his relief releasing the breath bound up in his chest.

Caramel is still breathing. As carefully as he can manage, he extricates the feline from the dryer drum. The cat’s small hazel eyes are tired slits, blinking weakly up at Jughead. His little leer is pained as his breaths come in short, panicked spurts. Jughead snatches up a couple folded towels off the top of the dryer and lays the cat on top.

The wind whistles through the screen door. If Caramel is still alive, then this must have just happened, Jughead deduces. His gaze flits about the laundry room, scouring the floor for footprints or aberrant scuff marks, even blood if Caramel fought back, anything that might help identify who decided to put a defenseless cat in the dryer.

He spots Caramel’s cat carrier on top of the Cooper’s pantry. After creating a second cushion of towels in the carrier, he gently places Caramel inside and latches the mesh door.

Hurrying over to his own trailer, he finds Jellybean watching TV on the couch. Her tiny blonde head pops up over the breakfast window, draping herself over the counter. “What’s in the box?”

He ignores her, searching the kitchen for his mother’s car keys. “Have you seen mom’s keys?” he asks when he doesn’t spot them in their usual spot, in the bowl by the front door.

“Who are you running from?” she wonders with a smirk, but then Jughead finds the keys in the pocket of his mother’s leather jacket and bolts back outside with the cat carrier in tow.

He hears Jelly shout at him from the Jones patio about their mother killing him. Given the circumstances, he is pretty sure his mom will forgive him, he considers, twisting the keys in the ignition and speeding off for the nearest animal hospital.

* * *

Jughead calls the funeral home from the vet’s office, and Betty immediately leaves work.

While Caramel’s rear leg is being reset and placed in a cast, Betty grills the veterinary assistant for details, whether there was any internal bleeding, head injuries, anything they might have missed. The vet assistant, for her part, fields Betty’s questions with grace and patience. She instructs Betty to monitor Caramel’s behavior in the next couple weeks and bring him back if his condition worsens in any way. She hands Betty a pamphlet about how to care for Caramel while his bones heal. Bones, multiple.

Even the veterinarian said it was a stroke of luck Jughead found Caramel when he did. The cat must have only been in the dryer less than a few minutes before Jughead found him. Any longer and who knows.

Gladys and Alice show up shortly after Betty. Though Jughead’s intentions were pure, his mother still bops him on the back of the head for driving her car without a license.

While Jughead would prefer to drive back in the same car with Betty and make sure she is alright, his mother corrals him towards their Corolla. _Let those two talk on their own,_ she reasons. So, he is forced to sit shotgun and watch Betty and her mother argue through the back window of Alice’s ancient Volvo wagon.

The police come and go. Betty wants to file a police report for posterity’s sake, even though everyone knows the cops aren’t going to find out who did it.

They stop by Jughead’s trailer, too, to take his statement. It ends up being the same deputy that helped Jughead fill out the request for the report from Samantha Lovett’s and Daryl Doiley’s deaths. It is this same deputy who announces quite happily in the middle of the Jones’s kitchen that he has already put in the requests for him.

While Jughead is relieved to hear they might get the Lovett and Doiley reports sooner rather than later, he has not yet told his mother he is looking more into Sammy’s case. While he answers the deputy’s questions, he can feel her dissecting gaze studying him over the lip of her wine glass. Jughead has poked plenty of bears over the years through his investigations, but by the look on his mother’s face, he knows he is about to poke the grizzly.

After the police leave, he expects his mother to interrogate him about whatever the hell he and Betty have gotten themselves into. There is a big difference between mentioning offhand coincidences in some nobody teenager’s documentary and actively trying to pin the town’s wealthiest family for murder. He still hasn’t told her about Adam. 

“You think we should stop?” he finally asks out loud.

His mother takes a small sip of her wine. “I didn’t say anything.”

He drums his fingers on the kitchen table, his knee bobbing fretfully. “Do you think Betty is going to quit the pageant?”

Finishing her glass, his mother turns to refill it from the box on the top shelf in the fridge. Speaking with her back turned, she reasons, “That’s up to her.”

Closing the fridge, she sets her wine glass on top of the fridge and jerks open the sticky freezer door. “You’re not kids anymore.”

She cracks a few ice cubes into her glass. “But, I think we all need to be more careful from here on out, so whatever you and Betty are digging into, I think you need to do it as quietly as possible,” she explains, turning to look at him directly and waving her wine glass at the handy-cam on the table. “Keep it off your little camcorder.”

He cannot tell if his mother is telling him to stop shooting his documentary or not, but he knows if he asked her for a straight answer, she would give him the same spiel she just gave about whether Betty should quit the pageant or not. _You’re an adult; make your own damned decisions._ Then, for good measure, _don’t get killed_ , which, at this point, is easier said than done.

Now, he sits on the bench on the Jones porch and tries to balance the video camera just right. The lighting is terrible. All those string lights on her porch, the fake icicles and blinking red and green leftovers that the Coopers never take down. At Betty’s request, he knows, even though her mother complains about the electric bill.

He can see her, though, tap, tap, tapping away against the pavement beneath the canopy of unseasonable Christmas lights. Despite everything, she is there, dancing away like nothing in this past week fazed her. He hopes it is a sign that she isn’t going to quit the pageant. Jughead watches her through the viewing window of his camcorder, tracking the resilience in each giddy twirl, the defiance in every jaunty skip. It feels like a sign for him, too.

The tapping stops suddenly, and Betty exclaims, “Juggie!”

The Jones porch light is off, but she must have spotted the recording light from across the lot. Jughead bolts upright like a deer in headlights, seeing her as she is now and not through the camera lens, mildly irritated and sweaty.

“You’re out in the open,” he defends quickly. “It’s not an invasion of privacy.”

“Well, don’t be weird.” She waves him over. “Come here.”

He snaps the viewing window closed and trudges down the porch steps. Crossing the narrow gravel road, his chest feels warm watching her tap back over to the small boombox on the Coopers’ porch. She restarts the song, which he could not hear well from across the lot. It is more background noise than anything, only loud enough that Betty can time her steps. She must not want to disturb their neighbors, at least not any more than they already have this late on a Sunday.

Looking up at the warm light from the Cooper kitchen, he spots Caramel lounging in the bay window. Propped on a bunch of pillows, the cat sleeps soundly without the giant plastic collar they sent him home in. Betty even tucked a small blanket around him.

“I thought you’d want to be alone,” he reckons, taking a seat on the step beneath the boombox.

“There’s always room for suggestions here,” Betty insists, bending forward and touching her toes. “Having an audience always helps,” she says with a groan as she braces her hands behind her right calf, stretching out her hamstrings. “Especially a tough one.”

“Oh, I’m tough alright,” Jughead claims, flipping open the viewing window and setting the camcorder on his bent knees.

Betty rises slowly. Her head is the last thing to come up with a challenging smirk plastered on her face. “Maybe you should heckle me a little.”

“You’ve got a tough enough skin already, Betts.”

She tilts her head to the side, rolling out her ankles. “Humor me.”

He props his elbows on the porch step and leans back, regarding her beneath the twinkling glow of the Christmas lights. “You’re still gonna compete?”

She quirks a brow at him, like his question is the most ludicrous thing she has heard all day. “Of course.”

Betty checks the bottoms of her tap shoes, and then picks up the beat, testing out a few moves. “Just because we have to actually start using the locks on our doors doesn’t mean I’m going to quit the pageant, Juggie,” she gets out between steps.

“Are we still meeting on Tuesday?” he inquires further, zooming out to get all of her in the viewfinder.

She performs a complicates series of steps and then stops, giving him an expectant look with sweaty fly-aways sticking to her forehead. “Yes,” she confirms in two lilting syllables.

Betty practices a few jumping jacks and then tips an imaginary hat at him. “Juggie, are you having second thoughts?”

“No,” he defends readily, and then waffles, “I was just – you know, seeing if you were still up for it.”

Betty cramp rolls towards him with her shoulders hunched up towards her ears, crooking her hands like Bela Lugosi’s Dracula before jumping and sticking her landing right in front of him. “You better believe it.” She cramp rolls again, more aggression in her final heel stomp. “No one puts my cat in a dryer and gets away with it.”

The front door swings open, the screen smacking the wall. Both Betty and Jughead turn to peer up at Alice poking her head out. “Mrs. Blossom called.”

_Speak of the devil_ , Jughead thinks at the same time Betty sighs and returns to practicing, not willing to stop dancing for that woman for one second. “Oh?”

“She moved the interviews back to tomorrow afternoon, four o’clock in the gym,” Alice informs them.

That stops Betty. “What?”

“Something about scheduling conflicts with the wrestling team. It sounded sketchy to me, too,” Alice explains.

Then, Jughead sees it, the beginnings of a fracture. “I have the Klump funeral tomorrow.”

The memorial was being held at the funeral home at two, and the Curdles usually expected Betty to stay afterwards and help clean up.

Alice sucks her teeth. “Yes, I told the witch, but did she care? Sweetheart, just explain to Dr. Curdle that you need to be at the judges’ interviews, okay? He’ll understand.”

Jughead knows Betty does not like asking for handouts, would never endure someone having to make her the exception to the rule. Betty Cooper does not shirk responsibility.

“Betts,” he bids, but he can see the stress finally wearing on her. She swipes the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead, staring unblinking at the pavement. When this happens, her ability to hear anything, let alone process it, goes out the window.

“Betts, hey,” he tries again, standing up and grabbing her shoulders. “I’ll help you clean up, okay? We’ll get it done.”

She exhales all the air out of her lungs, trying to shake off her dejection. He helps her, rocking her back and forth gently. “Come on, breathe. We’ll get it done, and you’ll get to the interview on time.”

He feels her deflate beneath his palms, finally looking up at him. He nods, trying to inject some more reassurance into his gaze. She takes another deep breath and nods with him. “Yes, it’ll be fine. It’s all going to work out,” she declares, relaxing her hands at her sides.

“We’re going to figure this out,” he assures her. “We’re going to find out who’s behind this.”

He feels her stance squaring, her shoulders setting, her determination and resolve building beneath his hands. “Yeah, we are” she agrees again, a smile threatening on her face. “And then, I’m going to win this frickin’ pageant.”


	6. i am doll eyes

“Where’d you find the monkey suit?” Betty asks as she rolls the dolly over. Jughead deposits the stack of chairs onto the dolly and helps hold it in place while she pushes it back to the storage room.

“Guess it’s a holdover from FP’s better days,” he surmises.

His mother said he was too old to be wearing a button-up and jeans to a funeral and dug out his father’s one and only suit from the bowels of the master closet. Per his parole officer’s recommendation, FP found it in the donation pile at the local Methodist. Jughead seems to be inheriting a lot of his father’s old things recently. Sometimes his mother looks at him like she is seeing another person, but when she held the jacket up to his torso to eye the fit, she smiled and commented, _not quite_.

“It’s a little wide in the shoulders,” Jughead notes, shrugging into the empty spaces. “And smells like moth balls.”

Betty sweeps her fingers across the shoulders like she is dusting him off, exactly what his mother did when she extracted the ensemble from the old dry-cleaning bag.

“I think you look good,” she claims and then straightens his tie, nudging the knot closer to his throat.

“You, too,” he deflects out of habit.

Betty rolls her eyes, maneuvering the dolly back into the viewing room. “Yeah, I’m sure the judges are going to love the all-black ensemble. I’m gonna come across like a real ball of sunshine.”

Betty looks smart but dour in her black dress and tights. They are practically her work clothes, and unlike the other contestants, she won’t get the chance to change after the judges’ interviews.

She starts stacking more chairs onto the dolly, stopping briefly to check the underside of her wrist for the time, sighing when she sees how late it is getting.

Jughead taps her shoulder. “What starts with an _O_ and ends with _nions_ and sometimes makes you cry?”

Setting the folded chair on the ground, she quirks a brow at him like she knows the answer and doesn’t really have time for his silliness.

“Opinions,” he offers with a self-conscious grin.

Though she snorts, barely amused, a smile works its way across her mouth, not so much for the joke itself but for Jughead even attempting it. Eventually it cracks, blossoming into a full-blown grin. She resumes stacking chairs, but he sees it expanding, brightening into a megawatt Betty Cooper-grade smile with all the intensity of a solar flare.

“See? Right there,” he points out, aiming a finger at her chin. “You do that, the judges aren’t gonna notice your clothes.”

“You don’t even like beauty pageants, Jug,” she reasons, blowing him off.

“True, I think they’re flesh factories,” he concedes bluntly, and she drops her jaw, looking about ready to smack him. “But,” he starts, holding up a finger to pump the brakes on her anger, which could be like a flash bomb if he pushed the right buttons at the right time. “I like you.”

Something flickers across her face, a small wrinkle between her eyebrows, maybe confusion, maybe something else. He doesn’t know why. It isn’t the first time he’s intimated this to her. Jughead has outright shouted it to the rafters that Betty Cooper is his favorite person in the entire world, when they first met in third grade, all the way up to last week in the middle of lunch. Veronica pelted him in the forehead with a tater tot for his outburst.

“Just be yourself, okay?” he says with a sigh. That is enough for him and screw anybody else who thinks differently.

Betty gives him an odd look, one strangely sober and reminiscent of the previous afternoon in Curdle’s office. He waits for her to razz him like usual for being corny, but she looks at him like she is working out some private equation in her head. It makes him uncomfortable.

“What?” he asks nervously, taking the chair out of her hands and lining it up on the dolly, his shoulders hunched defensively. 

At his guarded tone, she shakes her head. The undetermined emotion on her face dissolves into the same friendly Betty fondness that he doesn’t feel the need to check his words anymore. She folds the next metal chair closed with a clatter of finality. It lets the next bit come easier.

“Look, I know pageants are all about the superficial,” he says, waving his hand at her general appearance. “But, you’ve got a lot more going on under the hood. Make that the focal point, and you’ll have them in the bag.”

Betty’s _thank you_ is subdued, shy as she pushes the dolly to the storage room. His stomach rolls with the beginnings of indigestion. When she is far enough away, he grimaces and presses his fist beneath his sternum. Maybe it is time to check under the hood. He swallows the discomfort down and hurries to catch up with her.

To cover up the residual weirdness, Jughead grabs her wrist to check the time. She flinches, and his heart lurches back into his throat. What is happening? He is usually so good at this. Did he miss something?”

He almost releases her, relaxing his grip and considering maybe he grabbed too hard, but then she freely offers up the time, feeling the rotation of her wrist bone against his fingers. She smiles like everything is normal again and shows him the watch face snug beneath her palm. “We have time, Jug.”

* * *

They are only ten minutes late, but that doesn’t prevent Penelope’s snide remarks about punctuality. “It’s not only your posture, ladies. Promptness demonstrates respect, and lateness gives the impression you think your time is more valuable than the rest of ours. Ms. Cooper, please take a seat,” she snipes, pointing at the empty chair front-and-center.

Jughead hangs back by the bleachers with the rest of the wrestling team. Taking a seat on the bottom bench with his camcorder, he is unable to iron out the petulance cinching up his brow. He thinks Penelope can see it, too, observing him coolly down the doctored line of her nose as she resumes her monologue about the importance of presentation. He just knows someone tampered with that too-straight edge, and her untouchable smugness tests his patience enough that it takes everything in him not to spout accusations about giving Betty’s cat the rough-n-tumble in the Cooper’s ancient Whirlpool.

He stares at the back of Betty’s head and wonders if she feels the same way. By her squared, rigid shoulders, she is taking Penelope’s lessons about appearances seriously. Everything here is a show. Everything is a game. Unlike him, Betty knows when to maintain, when telegraphing hurts more than it helps. Unlike his best friend, self-control is not his forte.

Penelope starts on some spiel about how the _judges are just as nervous as you are_ , prompting Jughead to take stock of said judges congregating behind the privacy curtain set up on stage.

Fred Andrews must have finished the renovation over the weekend. He wonders if the Blossoms threw in a little something extra for the effort, but Jughead can guess they threw in a lot extra seeing as how Freddie is one of the judges on the panel. Anything to daub a little more grease on the wheels. Watching Fred pull a chair out for Jug’s homeroom teacher Mrs. Grundy, he hopes Mr. Andrews is as honorable in practice as his spotless reputation suggests.

Affording one more wary glance Penelope’s way, who appears preoccupied with instructing the contestants on how to sit properly and making one distasteful comment about what could fit between Nancy Wood’s legs, Jughead meanders towards the stage, vaulting himself up onto the platform with one hand.

“Hey, look who it is,” Fred exclaims, setting down his clipboard. He waves Jughead over, genial and welcoming as ever. “Penelope said you were doing something for the pageant, something about shooting a recruitment video for next year?”

Jughead offers a tight smile, brandishing the handy-cam strapped to his hand. “Yeah, a recruitment video,” he provides, keeping the testiness out of his voice to the best of his abilities. Relations between the Jones and the Andrews haven’t been exactly sunshine and rainbows over the years, not since Fred fired FP from his construction company and sent his father into the tailspin that landed him in prison.

He migrates closer to the other two judges, Mrs. Grundy and Pop Tate. Mr. Andrews looks a little chagrined by the iciness, but his dismay doesn’t seem to linger.

Mrs. Grundy is still wearing her black dress from the Klump funeral. Jughead hopes that might help Betty, the lone girl in black in a sea of technicolor pantsuits and sheer pantyhose. He also takes it as a good sign that the only woman on the judge’s panel is their homeroom teacher and that the third judge is Pop Tate, both of whom adore Betty.

It is not the group he expected Penelope Blossom to put together, but it is definitely the best panel he or Betty could have hoped for. It is almost too good to be true because with the Blossoms, there is always a catch.

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions about the pageant?” Jughead inquires politely. “And record it?”

“Sure thing, son,” Pop obliges. “This is for the recruitment video then?”

Penelope must have mentioned it. Jughead nods and lifts the camera. “I’m also making a documentary of the pageant, but yeah.”

He tries to ignore Mr. Andrews’s fatherly smile beaming over the table at him, the misplaced paternal pride in his eyes, and instead launches into his series of questions. “So, um, how did you get involved with the pageant?”

“We were all asked by Mrs. Blossom,” Grundy provides.

Jughead locks his jaw. Of course she did. “Why do you think you were chosen to judge the pageant?”

Fred Andrews intimates that she asked him during the stage renovations. He shrugs and supposes amiably that Penelope picked him out of simple convenience. Pop Tate discloses that he will be providing refreshments for the night of the pageant, and Penelope asked him after he volunteered his services free of charge.

Mrs. Grundy has another theory for why they were chosen, supposing Penelope asked them because none have daughters in the pageant. “She wants an impartial panel. I agreed for that reason alone,” Mrs. Grundy explains and adds for good measure, “But also to make sure there was a woman.”

Jughead presses his lips together. He wants to believe her, but there was no chance in hell Penelope would ever want an ‘impartial panel’, certainly not the year Cheryl was competing. “Mrs. Grundy, did you participate in the pageant when you were a senior?”

“No, I wasn’t interested in competing.”

“Why?”

“I had other commitments at the time,” she supplies cryptically, folding her hands on the tabletop and shutting down. Now he knows he should be suspicious. 

Jughead tries a different tack. “Would you say pageants are a good idea for teenage girls?”

Mrs. Grundy sits up straighter. “I think pageants can help teach some girls discipline, so yes, it may be a good idea if executed correctly.”

“Do you think this pageant has been executed correctly?”

Mrs. Grundy looks over Jughead’s shoulder at the group of girls seated below them. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many girls sit still for that long,” she supposes. “Penelope has a good handle on them.”

Pop Tate interjects here, “Yes, Penelope has really put a lot of time and energy into making this pageant something special for the girls. Just look at Fred’s renovation,” he marvels, pointing at the new stage, the polished boards.

The newer hardwood would be great for Betty’s talent, and Jughead can admit the lighting should have been upgraded a decade ago, but he would be more inclined to give Fred most of the credit over.

Her ears must have been burning because Penelope click-clacks her way up to the stage with a purpose, asking curtly whether the judges are ready to begin the interviews.

She gives Jughead a pointed look. “Don’t be like your friend Ms. Cooper, Mr. Jones, and make us any later than we have to be. It’s been a difficult enough day already, and the wrestling team has the court soon,” she throws up at him, a clear attack, dragging Midge onto his guilt train. 

“Right, thank you for your time,” Jughead closes, turning to the judges and bowing his head.

He hops off the stage and lands heavily next to Penelope, his boots loud against the court. He ignores her glare and wanders over to where the girls are mingling, waiting their turn.

They call Veronica Lodge back first. As she makes her way to the stage, he plays chicken just to mess with her, but at the last moment, he steps out of the way. She rolls her eyes, and he hides his smile by scratching the side of his nose and ducking his head, whispering _good luck_ as he passes her.

Jughead beelines for Betty standing by the refreshments table with Nancy Woods, who keeps tugging at the hem of her pencil skirt. It looks like it belongs on someone five inches shorter.

Before Jughead can join them, Chuck Clayton blocks his path. “Hey, you’re making that video for the pageant, right?”

Jughead holds his camcorder close to his stomach on the off-chance Chuck makes a grab for it, but instead of swiping it from him and pulling his shirt up over his head, Chuck slings his arm along Jug’s shoulders and swings him about-face. “You gotta get my girl there,” he exclaims, pointing at Nancy Woods.

“Uh, yeah, Chuck, that’s where I was going,” Jug informs him, feeling very uncomfortable under the arm of someone in blue wrestling tights and nothing else.

Nancy Woods looks over and smiles seductively, twinkling her fingers at them. Chuck grins. “That’s my baby,” he preens proudly, jutting his chin at her. “They said you were making a documentary or something. It’s gonna be in theaters?”

Jughead swallows, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably. “Well, that’s,” he starts, but Chuck cuts him off, “Don’t skimp on her, okay? She’s gonna be a star. Just look at her.”

Jughead slides out from beneath Chuck’s arm and dances away. “You got it, Chuck.”

Seeming satisfied that he has convinced Jughead to give his girlfriend more screen-time, Chuck whoops across the gym. “You’re perfect, baby!” he yells, gesturing at her skirt and then flashing her the a-okay sign. Jughead can guess Chuck told her the skirt was a good choice.

Unfortunately, by the time Jug reaches Betty and Nancy, Betty is called back for her interview. She pats him on the shoulder, and he quickly tells her _good luck_ before she trots off toward the stage, leaving him alone with Nancy, who has since stopped tugging at her skirt after Chuck’s outburst.

“So, um, Nancy, do you mind?” he wonders, waggling the handy-cam at her. Chuck wolf-whistles loudly behind him until Penelope snaps at him to behave.

She adjusts her headband, primping her black curls and beaming at him. “Yes, of course.”

“How are you feeling about the pageant?”

“So excited,” she expresses excitedly. “My boyfriend thinks I have a really good chance.”

“Yeah, he seems supportive,” Jughead cedes, looking over his shoulder and getting an overeager sign of approval from Chuck.

“Very supportive,” Nancy agrees. “He’s helping me with my talent, too.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah, we’ve been running through it every night together. He’s really working me over hard. I’m still a little sore from last night,” she admits, rubbing her shoulder. “But you know what they say, practice makes perfect.”

Jughead knows he should ask, that he has to ask, but he is a little afraid of the answer. “What’s your talent, Nancy?”

In quick succession, Nancy contorts her body into the suggestion of an R and a B and then performs a jumping jack, a startling feat in her tight skirt. As she lands, she shouts, “Go Bulldogs!” This prompts a flurry of barks and whoops from the entire wrestling team, another sharp reprimand from Penelope Blossom, and all the while Jughead pretends he doesn’t know Nancy is wearing bright orange underwear. He also hopes he can edit it out of the shot later.

Jughead sighs. It’s been a long week. “Right, cheering.”

“My boyfriend is part of my act, too. He and Reggie will be wrestling during my routine,” Nancy adds, blowing a kiss over her shoulder.

Then, like she cannot stand to be apart from him for one more second, she excuses herself and runs over to Chuck. Jughead lets his camcorder do the watching, grimacing at the ceiling for a couple seconds before he turns his attention elsewhere, meandering toward Veronica.

“So, Ms. Lodge,” he opens, pressing the eyepiece to his blinker and lifting the camcorder.

Veronica hums in false exasperation, spinning on her heels toward him. She swapped her funeral clothes for something tasteful and plum. He catches Cheryl’s evil eye over her shoulder, zooming out just a hair to put the redhead’s envy in focus before zeroing back in on Veronica. 

“If it isn’t _Hearts of Darkness_ ,” she quips, bringing her cup of punch to her mouth and blanching once the syrupy concoction hits her lips. “You missed the opening act, you know?”

He really doesn’t want to know what Penelope might have said or did in the ten minutes he and Betty missed. He’s angry enough as it is. “Hey, did you hear about Adam?”

Veronica shifts her weight to the other foot. “Of course, I was there, wasn’t I?”

Jughead waffles on whether to turn his camcorder off but decides to keep the film rolling. “Did you, um, did you see the body?”

He has the grace to cringe at her distasteful look, astonished that he has the brass to ask such a morbid question. Her tone lets him know he could have phrased it better. “No, you goon. Moose and Reggie found him, but I was at the swimming hole with everyone. I was – let’s say a little preoccupied.” He can guess that she was probably making out with Archie in the woods or worse. “But, I saw the ambulances and the police show up and the body bag.”

“Where were you when this took place?”

Veronica studies him for a beat, debating whether to divulge this information, whether it is worth the guff she might get from him. “If you must know, I was in the woods with Archie.”

“Okay,” he says, snorting.

Guff given, she snaps at him, “Get your mind out of the gutter. We were just kissing, you perv.” 

He resists the urge to make a dig. It feels so antithetical to his being, but he reminds himself that this is a great chance to get something for Betty later in the _Blue and Gold_. “How far do you think you were? Um, from where they found his body.”

Veronica takes a deep breath, recollecting, “Really close actually. It was right over the hill. The sirens sounded like they were right there. He wasn’t even that far from the road.”

“Did you have to give a statement to the police?”  


“Yeah, but it was short. We didn’t see anything, but Archie thinks he heard something.”

“What?”

Again, Veronica wavers on whether to tell him, but then sighs in defeat. “A dog whistle.”

Jughead suppresses his laughter, and Veronica glares at him but concedes that it is a little ridiculous. “I know, how the hell would he hear a dog whistle? But, the cops guessed whoever shot Adam was probably out turkey hunting. It would make sense for them to have a dog in that case. Moose thinks he heard a coonhound. His family up in Canada raises them, so he knows what they sound like, but it was far off when he heard it. The cops think it was some freak accident, but I don’t know, whoever did it took the arrow.”

A spark catches. If it were Cheryl or Penelope, it would make sense why they would take the arrow. The Blossoms must have their arrows custom made. The cops would trace it back to them. It would be easy enough to confirm it. He could have Cheryl meet him at the range and get her to jabber about her archery.

The coonhounds are telling as well. “The Blossoms raise coonhounds, don’t they?”

“Yeah, for that barbaric annual ritual, the Barreling Fox Hunt,” Veronica muses darkly, tucking her hair behind her ear and sneaking a look at Cheryl over the edge of her shoulder. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

Jughead covers the microphone on the camcorder. “I’m saying, we’re looking into it,” he whispers.

Veronica arches an eyebrow. “We?”

Betty pops up behind Veronica, slipping out of the black heels she borrowed from her mother. She holds onto Veronica’s shoulder for balance while she massages her feet and growls low in her throat. “They asked me to list the presidents in reverse order, first and last name.”

Jughead grimaces and Veronica gapes. “What? Really?”

Betty slips one foot back into her shoe and then goes to work on the other, peeking over at Penelope by the refreshments table with the other mothers on the organization committee. “Yeah, I almost asked them if they wanted me to take a breathalyzer test and walk heel-toe, too. But the joke’s on her because I’ve had the US presidents memorized forwards and backwards since fourth grade.”

Jughead glances at the judges’ table welcoming Nancy Woods onto the stage. There is definitely a catch.

Veronica snorts. “At least that’s a more straightforward question than the rest of us got.”

“Oh?” Betty wonders, cracking a side-eye.

Veronica sighs and looks up at the ceiling with faux starry eyes and sarcastic dreaminess in her voice. “If you could be any tree, what would you be?”

Jughead bites his knuckles to keep from laughing over the camera, trying to hold the camcorder steady.

Betty grumbles again, finishing her other foot and replacing it in her shoe. “I would’ve had a really good response to that one, too.”

“How would you have answered it?” Jughead asks, keeping the interest out of his voice as he directs the viewfinder at her. 

Betty recognizes he has slipped back into documentarian mode and levels with the camcorder. “A willow tree.”

“Why the willow?”

“It doesn’t mind getting its feet wet, so resilience and willingness to get down in the muck to get things done, but it is still a graceful and romantic sort of tree, right? The willow can be downright weedy in a lot of situations, so it is tenacious.”

“Wow, that was better than my answer,” Veronica submits. Both Jughead and Betty give her a look expecting the goods, and she purses her lips. “Coconut.”

Jughead gives her a quizzical look. “Why?”

Veronica cringes and shrugs. “My family was in the rum business. Our coconut rum was really popular.”

“Oh my god, you didn’t say that, did you?” Betty boggles, resisting her own laughter now.

“Don’t laugh,” Veronica scolds, folding her arms defensively across her middle. “It was the best I could come up with in the heat of the moment. Coconuts are really nutritious and refreshing.”

  
“That’s not a bad answer,” Betty concedes but cannot stifle her grin, trying to shake it off her face. “See, I would’ve had the perfect tree for you, V.”

Veronica arches a skeptical brow at her.

“Black walnut.”

“Really?” Veronica recoils, not having it.

“Yeah,” Betty supplies, unfazed by Veronica’s skepticism. “You’re a tough nut to crack, but once you get to the heart, it’s well worth the work.”

Veronica tilts her head to the side as if weighing whether she should accept that explanation for the compliment it is. “Why do you know so much about trees?”

“Didn’t you know? Betty knows everything,” Jughead teases.

Betty rolls her eyes. “I stand by my choice.”

Cheryl’s name is called next, and she shifts the red wave of her hair over her shoulder and wags her hand viciously at the circle of lemmings around her to make way.

“How much do you want to bet her mother’s already fed her the questions?” Veronica wonders aloud as they all watch the redhead cross the gym.

Jughead worries the game really is rigged. He doesn’t know how Penelope might’ve bribed or tricked or blackmailed the judges on the panel, cannot imagine what dirt she has on Pop Tate certainly, but he can guess she picked them for that reason alone. No one would question any of their final decisions on the pageant winner.

“Looks like we have to stay behind and work out schedules for dance practice,” Betty announces, slinging her arm along Veronica’s shoulders in solidarity. Veronica gazes at the ceiling like she is trying to remember why she signed up for this dog-and-pony show, and Betty turns to Jughead with a contrite, “Raincheck?”

Jughead snaps the viewing window closed. “After school tomorrow in the _Blue and Gold_?”

At the mention of the paper, Veronica immediately tunes them out, accustomed to being the third wheel in these conversations. When Betty or Jughead have their hooks in another issue, it is nearly impossible to garner either of their attentions. Veronica has groused on more than one occasion that it sounds like they are speaking another language, some combination of inside jokes and jargon only they can comprehend.

Betty tells him it is a go, and he nods, powering down his camcorder. She sees him off with a salute while Veronica gives him a half-hearted wave, leaving him to wade through the crowd of rowdy wrestlers to get to the gym doors.

* * *

At exactly 2:01PM the following day, Betty barrels into the _Blue and Gold_ and slams the door behind her. Anticipating a rage binge, Jughead nudges the open bag of Flamin’ Cheetos her way and braces himself for a Betty Cooper lecture on how barbaric it is to have final exams in her AP classes or why it is so difficult to herd the cats of the school dance committee and nominate a new chair for next year. Instead of taking a handful and using Jughead as her verbal punching bag, she slaps the polaroid down on the desktop in front of him.

Sticking one hot red finger in his mouth, he peers down at the image of a shock-faced Midge Klump dressed as a bloodied Carrie at last year’s musical. He glances up at Betty, feeling like he is missing something. She huffs and flips the photo, revealing the inscription on the back, **_YOU’RE NEXT_** in heavy black Sharpie.

That gets him to drop his feet off the desk with a bulky thunk, pulling his finger from his mouth with a slick pop to snatch up the polaroid. “Holy shit,” he breathes in disbelief.

“Found that in my locker about thirty seconds ago,” Betty informs him.

“Betty, Jesus,” he gapes, flipping the photo back over for a closer study. “Should we go to the cops?”

“Are you kidding?” Betty scoffs. “The sheriff suggested to my mother that she double-check the dryer before she turns it on. Oh, and that was after he asked her if she’d been drinking.”

Jughead cringes but asks anyway, “Had she?”

“What?”

“Been drinking.”

Betty gives him a dumb look like he should know better. It was after noon on a Sunday. What else would their mothers be doing?

He lays the polaroid back on the desktop, venturing cautiously, “Betty, this is getting a little close, don’t you think?”

She ignores his question and asks, pretty much cutting him off, “Did you get the police reports yet?” Without waiting for a reply, she interjects again, “Also.” Pulling out a canister of film from the chest pocket of her overalls, she tosses it to him.

He catches it against his chest. “What’s this?”

“I went back and took photos of the coroner’s reports. Adam’s is in there, too, now. They did a rush job on his autopsy, so the Chisholms can bury him before the weekend. It’s cheaper,” she explains, and then gives him an expectant look, waving impatiently. “So, police reports?” 

“Betty, did you hear me?” he tries again, setting the film canister down next to the polaroid.

Betty takes a deep breath and drops her backpack on her desk. “Yes, but what am I supposed to do? Do I just give up?”

He doesn’t have an answer for her, but the last thing he wants is for her to get hurt or worse. The thought alone fills him with dread, more so anguish, and though their mothers have faith he can look out for her as well as she can look out for herself, what if he can’t? What if she can’t? He cannot always be there. He can keep tabs on her through his documentary, but that will only get him so far. Does he glue himself to her side in the meantime? Would she be okay with that? He knows it isn’t his decision whether she quits or not, but if he opens his mouth right now, he might tell her it is the right one.

Betty takes a seat in the chair opposite him, her chair. He rolled out their investigation board as soon as he got to the office, and now it stands behind her, its blank corkboard face waiting for either of them to give it features like a dumb Mr. Potato Head.

Betty fiddles with the strap of her backpack, musing, “What if it is all just bad luck and someone is toying with me, making me think someone is after me?”

He gives her a look, and she nods, waving him off in frustration. “I know, I know, you don’t believe in coincidences, but bear with me for a second, please.”

He takes a moment to think about it, tries to find some rational explanation for each ‘accident’, something to explain it all away, but it feels so much like giving up. “You really think your mom accidentally let Caramel into the dryer? Betty, what are the chances?”

She shrugs, slouching in her chair and crossing her arms across her chest. “What if Midge’s death really was an accident? Maybe someone was hunting turkey and got Adam. Adam had nothing to do with the pageant.”

He wants to say it wasn’t about Adam. _You were supposed to be there, Betty_. And he feels the panic climbing up his throat all over again. She can only dodge so many bullets before.

Betty keeps going, though, sounding like she is trying to convince herself more than she is trying to persuade him. “My mom had been drinking, Jug. This wouldn’t be the first time she got a little too drunk and did something on accident. Remember when she accidentally crashed the car into the carpark. Or when she tried to cut my bangs in seventh grade. Or every time she has forgotten about cans in the freezer and they exploded. And I’ve found Caramel in weirder places. He really likes nesting in clean towels right out of the dryer. Maybe my mom didn’t notice he’d climbed into the dryer. You got there only five minutes after my mom left. I mean, the Coopers aren’t exactly known for their good luck, less their good sense.”

“Betty,” he says, cutting off her rambling, his tone slightly chastising. “This photo, though?”

“It could be someone who knows what’s going on and wants to scare me, make me doubt myself, make it seem like it’s my fault. This is a small town. Everyone knows about Midge and Adam by now. Look at my mom, my sister, hell, my dad. Everybody already thinks we’re bad luck, the Blossoms especially. Everyone thinks the Coopers are unhinged, and maybe all of this is to make me feel as crazy as they are. Sometimes I worry if I let myself care too much about the pageant, I’ll end up like Polly.”

Jughead immediately swipes at that thought, leaning over his desk. “Hey, you’re not your family, Betty. You’re nothing like your dad, and you’re nothing like Polly.”

“Aren’t I a little, though?” Betty argues back. “Maybe not in the same way, but I’m putting myself through this and for what? You don’t even believe in pageants, so what am I trying to prove?”

Jughead opens his mouth to disagree, but Betty is on another roll. “Polly was so obsessed with this pageant last year.” Capturing her head between her hands, she stares unblinking at her desktop. He can see the snowballing thoughts rolling downhill in her glazed, green eyes and swears to himself, losing her. “Coming from the Southside, people make snap judgments about you. Polly hated it. She hated where she came from. She needed to be perfect and popular, and at the time, I thought it was because she was dating Jason. His family wasn’t exactly supportive, and that was more pressure on my sister. The pageant became everything to her. She thought winning would make her worthy or something.”

“She did win, though,” Jughead contends.

Betty snorts. “Yeah, and look where it got her. Jason finishing up his first year at Yale and Polly in her first year at the Sisters of Quiet Mercy. What’s going to happen to me? Is this someone trying to drive me crazy, too? Or worse?”

He knows he shouldn’t be surprised. Ever since Polly’s breakdown at the end of last summer, the rumor mill has not been kind to Betty. Not that it has ever been especially charitable to any of the Coopers, but Betty has had to contend with more than one person heckling her about her sister, about apples not falling far from trees. If someone did want to make her feel crazy, this was the way to do it. But.

“Betts, I know I’m not the best person to argue against a conspiracy theory, but our mothers, Toni, they all think something is very wrong,” he reasons, sliding the polaroid across the desk.

Her sad and hopeful look makes his chest cramp, but he offers up a reassuring smile. “Hey, you never know, though. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and it turns out all of this was just some elaborate prank. But, if it is, wouldn’t it suck that some idiot with a Sharpie was able to get you to quit the pageant?”

She grumbles, swiping the polaroid off the desktop. “Ugh, I’d never get over it,” she cedes while Jughead ruffles through his bag for the police reports.

“So,” he tests, pulling out the files and offering them to her across the desktop.

Betty glowers at the reports in his hand for a moment, debating with herself. When she glances back up at him, it takes a second, but her features eventually soften. Her sigh is frustrated, but it doesn’t contain an ounce of defeat when she accepts the reports, standing and turning toward the corkboard. “Well, we know the cops sure aren’t gonna do anything if someone is out there killing people, so who else is gonna figure this out?” The first thing she pins to the cork is the polaroid. 

* * *

The bag of Cheetos is cashed by the time Betty stretches her arms above her head and groans, “What time is it?”

Jughead stops banging his pencil eraser against the yellow legal pad and glances up at the caged clock. He has been staring at the same note for the last ten minutes, and there are knives in his eyes. “Near eight.”

Betty tips forward. “Crap, why hasn’t Svenson kicked us out yet?”

She starts gathering her things into the baby blue JanSport between her feet. “I have dance practice tomorrow morning. Penelope wants us in the gym by a ‘crisp’ six.”

Jughead tosses his pencil onto the desk and yawns. “Guess I should pack it in, too, if I want to get some good shots tomorrow.” Conspiracy or not, he is still set on the finishing the documentary.

Betty snorts. “When was the last time you got up before seven?”

Jughead squints as he tries to remember an instance. He fails quickly. He can barely pass for a conscious human in homeroom, but by lunch he remembers how to use what Betty calls his big-boy words. “I cannot recall,” he supposes cautiously.

Betty looks like she has a tease waiting on the tip of her tongue, so he quickly interjects, “But perhaps it is because I wasn’t properly motivated before.” Folgers from the ancient Mr. Coffee in the Jones kitchen was never up to the task.

Betty smirk flitters across the desktop and smacks him in the face. “Oh, is it the promise of seeing teenage girls strutting around in daisy dukes that’s gonna get you out of bed before the crack of dawn?”

Her backup taunt is just as sharp but laughable. “You know me so well, Betts,” he cedes sarcastically.

She smiles and zips up her backpack. “Come on, creeper, my mom said she was making potpie tonight, and I think we both deserve a reward for a hard day’s work.”

They certainly have been hard at work, but so far, the coroner’s reports are the only things that have yielded any fruit.

They concluded Daryl Doiley might have been dead before he was in the car in the garage. Adam was shot in the heart with a broadhead arrow. Based on the depth and impact, it was from at least 50 yards. It was not an easy feat in a wooded area, so it had to be someone proficient with a bow.

Unfortunately, Midge Klump’s autopsy didn’t turn up anything suspicious, and the police reports have been comparatively lackluster. Because they are still open cases, Jughead was not able to get the Chisholm or Klump reports. Daryl’s report contained a short statement from his mother and almost nothing else, ruled a suicide and filed away. Samantha Lovett’s report was also short and sweet, labeled an accident, not a word about Daryl Doiley, which corroborates what their mothers told him. The Lovetts didn’t even try to sue the school for negligence. It’s like the police didn’t even try.

All of it is circumstantial, but Jughead just knows there is a smoking gun somewhere. If Penelope is involved, she has been painstakingly careful. No one seems suspicious yet, but Jughead bets if she keeps pushing, it might turn some heads. She only has so many get-out-jail-free cards before someone, hopefully the cops, recognizes a pattern. At the moment, this is the best Jughead can hope for, that Penelope might have to relieve some of the pressure on Betty or else be found out.

* * *

On the walk through Sunnyside, he asks Betty if she feels a little better, bumping his shoulder into hers.

“A little,” she admits. “We still have zero evidence.”

True. Aiming for helpful, Jughead suggests, “Maybe you could mark the stage wherever there is a light. Just in case.” It falls flat.

“Great, thanks,” Betty returns tightly, loving to be reminded she might have a literal grim reaper waiting for her around every corner. He needs to work on his timing. 

The next few minutes are silent, nothing but the sound of their feet crunching through the gravel. Jughead tries to come up with something more encouraging, knowing neither of them are going to get much sleep tonight.

“I do feel better with you around,” she confesses quietly. “Safer.”

Jughead shifts the strap of his messenger bag higher on his shoulder. “I always have your back,” he says, like it should be obvious. It makes him feel a little honored, though, to know he helps at all.

“I know, but I think if you weren’t around, I would’ve quit the pageant last week.”

Jughead clicks his tongue. “Mm, I call bullshit.”

“What? I mean it, Jughead,” Betty returns, sounding offended.

“I don’t know,” Jughead muses with false uncertainty. He knows it is going to rile her up, can sense her irritation growing, but he won’t leave her hanging long.

“When she has her mind set on something, the Betty I know follows through,” he declares firmly, nudging her shoulder once more. “Nothing keeps her down for long.”

She shoves his shoulder playfully. He laughs, looking ahead to let her take the compliment on her own, but he doesn’t miss the shy smile she directs toward the ground.

He would savor it longer, but he sees the lights first, his attention turning up the lane. “What the hell?” It wouldn’t be the first time that cops visited Sunnyside, certainly not the last, but it usually doesn’t draw as big a crowd as the one he sees down the street. Then, he smells smoke.

Betty takes off first, running so fast her feet barely touch the ground. It almost sounds like her tapping before it gets drowned out in the crowd. Jughead tries to keep up, but she has always been so damned quick, disappearing into the crowd. As he skids to a stop through the gravel, he sees the billowing smoke rising into the dying light above their lots.

Betty melts into the throng of onlooking Sunnysiders, who part like the red sea as soon as they see it is her. Jughead has a harder time, trying to follow Betty’s wake, but the crowd closes quickly around her, blocking his path.

By the time he makes it through the crowd, Betty has spilled onto her yard, held up by a deputy’s arm while she shouts for her mother. Even Jughead feels stunned for a moment, gaping wide-eyed at the cluster of Crown Vics with flashing lights, and the firefighters aiming their hoses at none other than the Cooper’s trailer. 

Stunned, he stares dumbly at the smoldering rubble, the blood roaring in his ears. For a moment, he isn’t sure this is actually happening. A firefighter accidentally bumps into him and the sounds of the world come flooding back, Betty’s voice sharp and high above the cacophony of chaos.

He rushes up behind Betty, corralling her away from the policeman and scanning the people around them for his own mother. He feels her nails digging into his forearm, and he about sinks with her weight as her knees buckle.

The Jones trailer sits untouched on the opposite lot, the lights on in the kitchen and the living room. He thinks he spots Jelly’s head peeking over the lip of the bay window in the living room, but then Gladys crashes into them. Just seeing his mother makes him feel a bit saner, more in control as she guides them toward the Corolla waiting on the other side of the blockade. She must have been on her way somewhere or just arriving home when this happened.

“She’s alive,” Gladys tells Betty first, knowing that is all the girl cares about. “She’s alive. They took her to the hospital. That’s where we’re going, hun.”

When they get to the car, Jughead helps Betty into the passenger seat. He tumbles into the backseat and finds his little sister bunched up on the other end of the bench seat. Her chin wobbles dangerously as everyone fills up the cab, doors slamming around her but not blocking out the roar of the crowd and the sirens and the fire, Betty distressed and nearly in tears, his mother with ash on her face.

Jughead opens his arms and lets her scoot into the middle seat. He draws her close and braces one hand around her blonde head for reassurance.

“Juggie, what’s going on?”

She sounds so scared, and when he feels her shivering, Jughead slips his hand beneath the edge of his beanie and slides it off his head before planting it directly on hers. It was something he used to do when she was younger, when she had trouble sleeping on her own, when she was riddled with nightmares. _To keep the bad thoughts out_ , he would promise, and though she grew out of it, she accepts it now, tugging it down over her head.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “Bean, are you okay?”

She nods without much certainty, looking back and forth between their mother and Betty in the passenger seat. His best friend has her forehead plastered to the glass, staring at the crowd goggling at her destroyed home.

“Mom,” he tries softly.

His mother cuts him off with a curt shake of her head, Newton-John curls swinging limp around her face.

Jughead chews the inside of his cheek, cradling his little sister’s head against his chest. He reaches over the edge of the shoulder rest, curling his fingers over the round of Betty’s shoulder. She tenses on contact, and he is about to retract his hand when he feels her fingers tripping over his own, the tension draining. She holds him there for the entire ride to the hospital.


	7. it stands for knife

Aiming the viewfinder directly at Tom Keller’s face, Jughead asks point-blank, “Sheriff, any leads on the Adam Chisholm case?”

Standing in the entrance to Riverdale General, the sheriff looks drawn beneath the harsh fluorescence. He should. Two teenagers dead in two weeks and now this, but he has the gall to censure Jughead. “You know I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation on the record.” He can. He just won’t with Jughead.

Jug keeps pushing though. “You think it was a hunting accident gone wrong?”

Someone needs to put the screws to these morons. Jughead considers listing him in the credits as Sheriff Tomfool Keller, see if anyone notices. The man has such a forgettable presence that Jughead wonders how he ever won the election. It certainly wasn’t by his policing skills.

Keller closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. This is not the first time he has been grilled by Jughead over another one of his conspiracy theories. Keller should know it won’t be the last time Jughead tests his patience. He looks at Jughead now with a mixture of resentment and antipathy that Jughead has come to expect. The addition of the camcorder is just one more annoyance to bleed into the many ways in which Jughead loves to twist his arm.

“We’re in the middle of an investigation,” he repeats, looking like he would rather be at home in his Barcalounger watching a rerun of a Pats game. Jughead is going to make him earn that first beer, though.

“Moose said he heard coonhounds. Have you looked into registered owners in the area?” He knows all the Blossom’s dogs are registered with the AKC. Clifford would never settle for anything less than a certified purebred in his kennels.

Keller pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’re exploring all our options, Jughead, okay?”

The sheriff reaches for the radio clipped to his shoulder, as if expecting or hoping a message might crackle through and free him from this conversation. Jughead keeps recording, knowing if he keeps pelting him with questions, Keller will eventually break or slip.

“Why do you think they took the arrow?”

The Sheriff narrows his eyes. “How do you know about that?”

Jughead’s excuse is breezy. “Mantle and Mason.”

Tom shifts on the balls of his feet and readjusts his utility belt. “Mantle and Mason didn’t know Adam was shot with an arrow, Jughead. Where did you hear that?”

_Shit_. “Well, that’s not what they told me,” Jughead lies. It was in the coroner’s notes, but Jughead guesses it didn’t come from the eyewitnesses. Calvin Curdle has tiny but neat handwriting, not exactly easy to read over Betty’s shoulder. “But, thanks for confirming it,” he adds, like he was planning to trick the Sheriff into telling him all along.

Keller looks about ready to throttle Jughead if it weren’t for the fact they are loitering in the vestibule of the emergency room. If he did, Jughead reasons at least he would be close to medical help.

“Jughead Jones, that is privileged information. This is an open investigation. You cannot show that footage,” he snaps.

Jug takes a step back toward the emergency room. “Relax, Tom, I won’t show it to anyone until the investigation is closed,” he promises, **if** they ever close it. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll give you the footage later.” After he makes a copy, of course.

Tom takes this assurance with an enormous grain of salt. Or it could be he doesn’t appreciate Jughead addressing him so familiarly. The sheriff swipes a hand across his face. “On my desk first thing in the morning.” 

Jughead reaches out, a gentleman’s handshake, hoping it will put Keller at ease, make him more receptive to the next few questions. The sheriff appears reticent to accept the gesture, but he is still a good ole boy. As soon as Keller’s hand closes around his own, Jughead instantly regrets it. The tendons connected to his knuckles start screaming, and he almost drops his camcorder.

“Crack of dawn, sheriff,” he promises quickly.

Keller yanks on Jug’s hand, prompting a gasp. “I should take it from you right now.”

Jughead doesn’t break eye contact, grinning through the pain. “And I really appreciate that you’re not,” he commends in a rush, feeling like a dog that is forced to lay down and bare its stomach. It isn’t a great feeling, but he isn’t sure the sheriff won’t break his hand right now.

The sheriff releases his hand, and Jughead jerks it back, sighing his _thanks_. “Gives me time to save some footage for my documentary.” He knew the sheriff was incompetent, but he had no idea he could be violent. Jughead always imagined it was run-of-the-mill laziness that kept these small-town cops from doing their job, but now his hand tells him there might be more going on beneath the surface.

“Is that what this is all about?” Tom asks, gesturing at the camcorder. He notices the red light is on. “Turn that off. Stop recording.”

Jughead’s finger hesitates over the stop button, but when Keller starts grinding his teeth, he concedes.

“I’m hoping to send it to some festivals,” Jughead explains, affecting his best kicked puppy look.

It has the desired effect. Keller chews on it, caught between calling Jug a right little shit and feeling sorry for him, the poor Southside kid trying to make something of himself.

Hoping the waters have calmed a bit, Jughead cashes in on this momentary pity and asks, “Sheriff, how do you think this fire happened?”

Keller claps him on the shoulder, good-natured for the moment. It doesn’t stop Jughead from flinching. “The fire marshal will make a final determination on the cause of the fire in their own time, Jug.”

“What about the dryer incident with the Cooper’s cat?” Jughead feels something drop in his stomach, remembering Caramel. In the fray earlier, no one thought to ask about the goddamned cat. Jesus, crawling out of one hole only to fall into another, that cat could not catch a break.

As soon as Keller locks his jaw, Jughead knows he has been shut out. The sheriff knows this game too well.

“Shouldn’t you be in there with your friend?” he accuses, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder.

He should. He knows that, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to interrogate the sheriff, especially in the aftermath of – this. Given the circumstances, Keller doesn’t look nearly as concerned as he should be, and Jughead feels his anger threatening to boil all over again.

A staticky voice crackles over the sheriff’s radio, saving them from each other. The man’s features melt in instant relief, releasing his grip on Jughead’s shoulder to stride back into the hospital without so much as a half-assed apology, nothing but a curt reminder over his shoulder to have that tape on his desk by conclusion of business tomorrow. “Or you’ll be getting a house call.” 

Counting backwards from ten, Jughead waits until he feels ready to return to the waiting room. He doesn’t want to bring any of his residual anger towards the sheriff back to Betty.

When he gets back, Jellybean is alone in the corner watching some nighttime soap on the caged television. His best friend and his mother are nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s mom and Betty?”

Her eyes trained on the television, Jellybean tells him they went to get snacks. “Or something.”

He takes the seat next to her, fingering the hem of his beanie and the ends of her blonde bangs plastered to her forehead. “You okay?”

“People keep asking me that, and I keep saying I’m fine,” she responds testily, her eyes glued to the screen.

“Is there anything you’re not fine with?” he tries instead. 

Jellybean chews the inside of her cheek, glaring at the television. It isn’t even in English, and there are no subtitles at the bottom of the screen.

“Jelly.”

“I think I accidentally blew up the Cooper’s house,” she finally says.

Okay, he wasn’t expecting that. “Why do you think that?”

Jellybean glances sidelong at him and then back at the television, slouching further in the plastic seat. Knowing what some Southside kids have gotten up to in the past, Jughead braces himself – pipe bomb, roman candle, makeshift firepit. Expecting the worst but hoping for the best was the Jones family motto.

“Joaquin and Jinx wanted to record their new song, but Mrs. Malloy had us do it outside because of the noise and all. We went to the lot behind the Cooper’s house. It’s away from the trailers. I asked Mrs. Cooper if we could plug the extension cord for Joaquin’s amp to the outlet under their deck, and she said it was okay. Jinx plays the first chord, and then all of the sudden the Cooper’s house goes up in flames. It looked like when they drop those bombs on television, and it was so loud,” she explains, staring wide-eyed at the TV screen like she sees it now.

Jughead internally sighs with relief and slings his arm along her shoulders. “Whoa, Jelly, that’s not your fault.” The timing is strange, though.

“But the timing,” Jellybean argues.

“Hey,” he bids, nudging her cheek with his knuckles. When she finally looks at him, he reasons, “An amp isn’t enough to blow up a house.” At least, he doesn’t think it could. If the fuses worked correctly, wouldn’t it simply short? He doesn’t think it would blow it up.

“The fire marshals are going to find out how it happened, and I’m pretty sure it will have nothing to do with Joaquin’s amp, okay?”

Jellybean sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, like she doesn’t quite believe him, but she leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder.

They sit and watch the television for a few moments, comprehending nothing, and then Jughead doubles back. “Wait, you said you recorded it?”

His little sister nods into his shoulder.

“Do you think you could snag the tape for me?”

Jellybean nods again. “They didn’t get much anyway. As soon as the house blew up, both of them ran away and left me holding the camera. Then, the battery on Jinx’s camcorder died.”

Jughead makes a mental note to find those two morons and make things uncomfortable for a bit. He will definitely be dragging them to the sheriff to give their statements, the little assholes. 

“Hey Jelly, I’m gonna go find mom. You want anything from the vending machines?”

“Nutter Butters,” she decides without hesitation. 

He grabs the side of her head and tugs it toward him to press a quick smooch to her temple. She doesn’t let it last too long, pushing her palm hard into his jaw and shoving him away, grumbling, “Don’t be a weirdo.”

He laughs and does it again just to tick her off, keeps doing it until she starts swatting him with real fury. He grabs her wrists and holds her back just long enough to launch himself away, releasing her to vault over the next row of hospital chairs.

“Skittles if there aren’t Nutter Butters,” she yells before he rounds the corner.

Jughead walks through the double doors without trouble. Beelining for the nurse’s station, he plans to ask about Alice’s whereabouts until the woman makes herself known. Jughead follows the sound of her voice booming from around the corner, and finds the woman raving in her hospital bed, fighting the male nurse trying to bandage her severely burned right hand.

“Oh, Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, she’s pregnant! Betty, come here baby, mommy wants to hug you!” Alice beckons, unaware her daughter is no longer in the room. She slurs a little from the paid meds and waves her poorly bandaged hand back and forth. “And then kill you!” 

What the hell did he miss?

Alice spots his face in the doorway, and he thinks if she had lasers for eyes, he wouldn’t have a head anymore.

“You!” She launches her bandaged hand at him like she wishes she could throw the beer can melted into her flesh at his face. “Get your skinny little ass in here, Jughead Jones! I’m going to make you regret ever putting your hands on my daughter, you little shit!”

Jughead quickly skips past her hospital room, almost running into another nurse coming to the aid of the other trying to hold Alice Cooper down.

He heads for another waiting room down the hall, noticing the line of vending machines through the open doorway. Working out the math in his head, he wonders if someone can know they are pregnant less than a week after they have had sex.

It’s not that he is completely ignorant of how sex works. He has Gladys Jones for a mother. The woman has given an entire lecture series on safe sex to her children, but no one has ever explained the finer details of pregnancy, and Jughead has never thought to ask.

The next question comes unbidden. Did Betty really sleep with Adam on the first date? No judgment, he hastily reminds himself, rubbing the back of his neck as he feels something turning uncomfortably in his stomach. 

Rummaging in his pockets for some change, he hears his mother’s voice up ahead. Approaching more cautiously, he tiptoes up to the glass windows and spots her inside with – Betty.

Her forehead against the vending machine, his best friend appears to be deciding between cookies and chips. His mother digs around distractedly for a few bills while she berates Betty. Jughead winces with the first thing he hears his mother say to her. “Your mother was just launched through the air like the freakin’ Challenger. She’s probably lost her styling hand, and you’re saying you’re gonna quit? The woman shoved your tap shoes in her panties, for Chrissake!”

Gladys slaps a fiver in Betty’s hand, and then notices Jughead standing in the doorway with quarters rattling around in one hand and his camcorder in the other. He feels out of place, like he walked in on something he should not have, but his mother snaps her fingers at him. “You, start recording.”

Jughead looks down dumbly at the camcorder and back at his mother.

“I want her to be able to come back to this. It’ll be good for her,” Gladys argues, and turns back to Betty. “Most people don’t have the physical evidence of the one moment they’ll regret for the rest of their lives.”

Betty straightens and sets her chin on her shoulder, looking at him with so much dejection and hopelessness that all he wants to do is hug her. She turns back and feeds the fiver into the vending machine. It spits the bill back at her before she can punch the numbers for the sour gummy worms he knows she wants.

He is about to tell his mother off when he hears the squeaking wheels behind him. Thinking it is a gurney, he steps into the waiting room to give them space to get past, but the squeaking stops. Turning, he comes face-to-face with Evelyn Evernever’s dead shark eyes barely a foot away. 

“Hello, there!” she chirps in a way that makes Jughead’s skin crawl. “Could I interest you all in some butterscotch?” Evelyn inquires with overenthusiastic cheer, brandishing a box of candies under his nose.

Taking note of her uniform, the characteristic candy striper blouse and hat, he backs away into the vending machine room.

Gladys glares at Evelyn. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something?”

“I know just the thing that will turn those frowns upside down,” Evelyn chirps, exchanging the butterscotch for some licorice rolls. It is not a smart move. He sees his mother’s thin patience visibly crack and steps out of the line of fire.

“If you don’t roll your little troll cart on out of here right now, I’m gonna shove those licorice rolls right up your ass! Go eat Hansel and Gretel again, you little witch!” his mother screeches, eyes wide with rage.

Evelyn shrinks like a frightened rabbit, grabbing her cart and scurrying off.

Gladys turns back to Betty. “You’re gonna quit, huh? You go in and tell your mother that to her face right now. See how far that gets you.”

Betty glances nervously at Jughead and back at Gladys, her bottom lip between her teeth. She leaves the fiver in the vending machine and shoulders around his mother, pushing her palm against his viewfinder to move him out of the way, too. 

Jughead stares the bill sticking out of the slot like a green tongue, sneering at them all. He gives his mother a dark look before turning to give Betty backup.

He keeps a safe distance but remains close enough in case anything goes wrong in Alice’s hospital room, but then Betty loses steam and stalls in the middle of the hallway. She sidesteps into the wall, looking like she might capsize before sliding to the ground and curling up into a ball. 

“Betts.”

She gathers her knees against her chest, gazing up at him. “Jug, hey.”

“It’s okay to take a moment,” he tells her.

Betty laughs short. “Before I face the wrath of my mother who just hit me in the head with the beer can melted to her hand because she thinks I’m pregnant?” she wonders aloud, looking down the hall to see the male nurse and his backup leave Alice’s hospital room. “I’m gonna need a lot more than a moment.”

She looks up at Jughead, her eyes watering. “Is it bad that I’d rather she thinks I’m quitting the pageant because I’m pregnant or because I’m scared?”

Jughead tries to keep his mind from blanking at the second mention that Betty might be pregnant, sinking down to join her with a measured exhale. He doesn’t know exactly how he feels about this new information. He has a million questions, none of them tactful, none of them appropriate for the moment, and none of them useful to either himself or Betty because none of them really matter. He wraps his hands around his knees, mirroring her.

“Whatever your reasons are, Betty, she doesn’t have to understand them. She just has to respect them. And, she’s your mother. She loves you,” he reasons, speaking as much for himself as he is for Alice.

Betty looks confused. “You know I’m not pregnant right?”

Jughead lets go of the breath that has been stuck in his lungs since the possibility was first raised. He is almost guilty for how relieved he feels to hear that. “Oh, that’s – okay. That’s good, huh?”

“Did you really think I was pregnant?” she asks, as if he is the ridiculous one for believing it for a second, that she would hide some double life from him, some other Betty Cooper he knows nothing about.

He stalls, eyes widening with embarrassment. “What? No,” he tells her, and then fumbles, “I mean, even if you were, it – well, it wouldn’t change, um, you know you’d still be my best friend and all.”

To be honest, he did think she would feel comfortable enough to tell him about that stuff, if she were seeing someone. There aren’t many secrets between them. 

He doesn’t say that if she were pregnant, and the father was a no-show, that she would always have him, because as soon as the thought flits through his brain, he panics about what that means. He doesn’t know what it means. He doesn’t even know where it came from, like an instinct, a kneejerk reaction, but then he rationalizes with himself that it is because Betty with a kid or without a kid, he would always be there for her. That is their truth. She looks out for him. He looks out for her. No matter what. There have been numerous pinky swears on the matter over the years. At one point, a blood oath when they were eleven. He has the scar on his palm to prove it.

Betty looks skeptical with his rambling response but then admits, “She probably thought that because Polly is pregnant.”

Jughead boggles all over again. “Whoa, really?” Okay, maybe there are a few secrets left between them.

She nods sadly. “Yeah,” she confesses, and then, scanning the hallway for eavesdroppers, she intimates quietly, “It’s Jason’s.”

“No shit,” he says breathlessly. “As in Jason Blossom?”

“The very same,” Betty confirms, her gaze falling into her lap.

“Crap, what am I going to do, Jug?” she wonders aloud, like she didn’t just admit the heir to the Blossom Maple Syrup Empire has an illegitimate child on the way with the daughter of their family rival. Does Jason know? If Penelope knew, Jughead isn’t sure Polly would still be alive. This is getting complicated.

He plays catchup, shelving the Polly revelation for a later date. “It’s okay to be scared, you know.”

“Should I quit?”

He reaches over and slips his hand into hers, sliding his thumb over the backs of her knuckles. Her fingers feel cold.

“I don’t think that’s in you, Betty, but I also don’t want you to put yourself in danger.” Because ever since he saw the column of black smoke rising above the rubble of the Cooper trailer, he could only think, _what next?_ Knowing there would be a next, feeling like he had jinxed himself when he rationalized like an idiot that whoever was behind this might have to lie low or be found out.

“No matter what you decide, though,” he adds because it isn’t his decision. “I’m with you every step of the way.”

She smiles, folding her other hand over his own. He allows her to deliberate in silence, taking as much time as she needs. In a couple minutes, she asks in a soft voice, “Maybe we could look back through some of your footage. See if we missed anything.”

“Sure,” he offers easily. “I should tell you Jellybean has a tape of your house blowing up.”

Then, he cringes, _too soon_ , but Betty is looking at him intently, eagerly, the wheels in motion. “Can you get it?”

He nods. “Uh, yeah, she said she’d give it to me. We could meet in the _Blue and Gold_ tomorrow, beef up the board?” he suggests.

“I have dance practice but after?”

He smiles, squeezing her hand. “You’re gonna compete then?”

She shrugs. “Yeah.”

He chuckles. She never stays down for long, and it is probably his favorite thing about her.

Glancing down the hallway, he reasons her mother has probably cooled off a little by now. “You should probably go convince her you’re not pregnant before she has a coronary.”

She takes a deep breath, following his gaze with apprehension. “Yeah, probably.” Then, she leans over and presses a firm kiss to his cheek, patting the spot afterwards with fondness. “Thanks, Juggie.”

He murmurs _anytime_ , feeling the spot where her lips touched grow unbearably warm. She rises, her palm sliding across his cheek and away. He waits a beat before standing, laying his own palm over the mark of affection and wondering if she can hear his heartbeat hammering in his chest. She doesn’t seem to notice, turning to go check on her mother.

Betty has never done that before. Blood oaths and spit vows and all other manner of friendship contracts, but Betty has never done that before. He watches her timid entry into her mother’s hospital room, lingering at the periphery, and then he shakes himself out of it. _Your own mother still kisses you on the cheek, weirdo_ , he rationalizes, rubbing at the hot spot on his cheek like a bee stung him.

Betty appears to be saying something to her mother, but he cannot hear it. He definitely hears Alice shouting to the ceiling a few moments later when Betty continues to waver in the doorway. When she looks like she is about to bolt, he takes a step forward only for a hand to clamp firmly on his shoulder and yank him backwards.

“Not so fast, junior,” his mother chides, her nails digging into his collar bone. “Let them hash it out.”

After a couple minutes, Betty wanders into Alice’s hospital room, her blonde ponytail the last part of her he sees. Still tracing the warm spot on his face, he considers asking his mother to do it, kiss him on the cheek, see if there is a difference, but then Gladys pokes his shoulder to get him to move forward like a pirate urging a hostage to walk the plank.

When they get to Alice’s room, they find Betty sitting on Alice’s bed, cradled in her mother’s arm as she brushes fondly at Betty’s hair. “You need to get out of this town, Betty. You’re one of the good ones, and this is your ticket, sweetheart,” Alice whispers close, kissing her on the temple.

_It’s just like that, Jones_ , he tells himself, but the feeling won’t go away, the memory of Betty’s lips on his cheek like a brand. 

He hears a sniffle and feels his mother’s arm slinging along his shoulder, pulling him close. He surreptitiously reaches for a tissue off the counter and hands it to her. She thanks him and ruffles his hair, knocking his beanie askew.

Alice and Betty notice them at the door, and Jughead wishes he could capture that look on his camcorder, Alice’s smile a little druggy but unfailingly proud and Betty’s resolve renewed. Betty skims her finger under one teary eye and grins at him, the light shining brighter and fuller than before like someone changed it out for a fresh bulb.

“She’s gonna win,” Alice swears, pinching her daughters chin between thumb and forefinger and giving her a big smooch on the cheek. _Yeah, just like that_.

* * *

Gladys’s voice fills up the ride from the hospital, pausing her rant only long enough to place an order at the KFC drive-thru. Betty will be bunking with Jellybean for the foreseeable future while the Coopers figure out their living situation. When Betty frets about being a burden, not one Jones will hear of it, stamping out every insecurity at every stoplight until they get home. Juggling the bulk of the fried chicken family meal with extra sides, Gladys and Jughead herd Betty into the kitchen with the greasy bags hot at her back.

In the Jones household, comfort food is the main solution to stress. Though it works wonders on her own children, Gladys has a tougher time getting Betty to eat more than a thigh. Jellybean, for her part, seems more than willing to inhale Betty’s share, and at one point, Jughead kicks his little sister in the shin beneath the table when she offers a second time to take Betty’s biscuits.

Halfway through dinner, while Gladys is busy guilting Betty into eating more mashed potatoes and demonstrating how to use a biscuit as a utensil, there is a knock on the door. Jughead sees Betty’s hands curl into fists beneath the table and immediately snatches one up, ready to sling Jelly over his shoulder and haul Betty out the back door.

His mother grabs a butcher’s knife out of the kitchen drawer and answers the door holding it behind her back, only to be greeted by a sheriff’s deputy.

“We’re not in the mood to give our statements right now. Can’t you see we’re trying to have dinner,” his mother gripes, waving the butcher’s knife at the table settings.

The deputy quickly apologizes and tips his hat, admitting he isn’t here for statements but explaining that the firefighters found something in the crawlspace of the Cooper’s trailer. When he reveals the pet carrier, Betty flies out of her seat so fast the chair goes crashing into the living room.

“The fire marshal called it a goddamned miracle,” the deputy marvels, opening the carrier and letting Betty reach inside for her childhood cat.

She takes the tabby from the officer with a million thank yous pouring from her mouth, laughing when Gladys muses that the little bastard really does have nine lives.

He doesn’t appear to have a scratch on him from the fire, but Betty is careful of his injuries from the dryer incident when she tries to hug him. Caramel accepts one before grumbling and swatting at her. She thanks the deputy a final time while she finds the indestructible tabby a comfortable spot on the couch.

It is a small token of good luck in a sea of misfortune, but Jughead can tell it is the extra boost Betty needs. After Caramel is left to rest on the couch, she eats two more biscuits and another helping of mashed potatoes.

At the conclusion of dinner, Gladys firmly prohibits her from cleaning a single dish and hands her a bath bomb and loofah, directing her to take the longest bath of her life. “Use up all the hot water, honey. That’s an order.”

Betty looks like she is about to cry and buries her face in his mother’s shoulder before she loses her composure, mumbling a quick thanks before escaping to the bathroom.

After cleaning the dishes, Jughead takes his camcorder and a stack of tapes out onto the porch. He smells his mother’s cigarette smoke drifting out from the open kitchen window as he reviews some of his footage from the past week. Some of it is to scout for potential evidence to identify whoever is behind these ‘coincidences’, but he also takes notes on what to keep and what to cut, scribbling his thoughts on the legal pad in his lap. The smoke and the sound of the television through the open window comfort him. It feels like things might finally settle down for a moment, but Jughead knows it is temporary, the calm before the inevitable storm. The pageant is barely a week away.

Jughead chuckles at a shot of Betty twirling and losing her balance when the screen door slams to his left. Jellybean hops onto the porch swing. Though his little sister is twelve and barely a hundred pounds soaking wet, the entire contraption lurches dangerously with the sudden weight. The porch swing predates her and has never been especially sturdy.

She scootches close to get a look. “You’ve got a lot of Betty, huh.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles before self-consciously fast-forwarding. The next scene ends up being more of Betty anyway.

“Did you feed Hot Dog?” In the chaos, everyone completely forgot about the dog in the Jones’ fenced yard. He hopes Jellybean at least played with him for a bit.

His sister hums in acknowledgment but senses he is trying to change the topic. “She is the prettiest,” Jellybean reasons, tipping the small screen towards her for a better view.

He sighs, irritated his own sister would boil it down to looks, too. “That’s not why she’s gonna win.”

“You think she’s gonna win?” Jelly counters, and he wants to scold her about why she thinks Betty would lose. Seeing this footage should be proof enough.

He should count his lucky stars that his little sister doesn’t follow this ridiculous pageant. He would give up a kidney to keep her out of it when she comes of age, not that he thinks Jellybean would ever be interested in pageants, but damn it if the tastes of teenagers aren’t fickle things. Like Peaches said only days ago, participating in this pageant is a death sentence, and he is barely comfortable with Betty competing at this point.

He finds it ironic that only a week ago he was rolling his eyes at the idea of anyone taking a beauty pageant seriously, and now he is eating his words.

“I know she’s gonna win,” he asserts, stopping play to jot a note on the legal pad.

“Why is she gonna win then?” Jellybean throws back like a challenge. He glances at her, and she pumps her eyebrows at him suggestively, like she is making fun or him or knows something he doesn’t. It is usually one of those two things.

“Because she has _it_ ,” he explains, gesturing at the small screen where a frozen Betty is in the middle of a jumping jack.

“It?”

“Yeah _, it_ ,” he maintains, pressing play again and fast-forwarding to a scene of Betty strutting towards the judges’ table. “That undefinable _it_ , the Grace Kelly-Audrey Hepburn-Vivien Leigh _it_. She’s just – I don’t know, magnetic.”

Jellybean snorts. “Okay, don’t get all googly-eyed on me.”

He jerks out of editing, dropping the camcorder. “What?”

His little sister tilts her head to the side, and he knows he is missing something.

“Wow, you’re thick. It’s obvious you’re madly in love with her,” she alleges, pointing at the handy-cam. “You can’t keep your eyes off her.”

“Hey, I am an impartial observer of the human condition, thank you very much,” he defends, feeling the bee sting on his cheek flaming up again. It itches something crazy. Maybe he is allergic to something in Betty’s lip gloss.

Scratching idly at his cheek, he returns his gaze to the viewing window and studies Betty leaving her judges’ interview managing to look triumphant and elegant in her funeral dress. As he fast-forwards looking for a scene where she is not in it, he is remiss to find one.

“What’s wrong with your cheek?”

He stops scratching and brandishes it at her, practically shouting, “Can you see it? Does it look bad?”

His little sister shoves his face away. “I was kidding. There’s nothing there. What’s wrong with you?”

Jughead looks down at the camcorder in his lap. “Shit, she’s gonna ruin my documentary,” he realizes, pressing stop on a shot of Betty in her jean overalls and sneakers tapping down the side of the highway in broad daylight, looking made of lightness and unstoppable and beautiful.

In true Gladys Jones fashion, Jellybean cuffs him on the back of the head, declaring with not a little irritation, “She’s gonna make your documentary, you walnut.”

His heart in his throat, Jughead snaps the viewing window closed, suddenly feeling extremely uncomfortable.

“Don’t have a heart attack now,” Jellybean cajoles, jostling his shoulder. “If it makes you feel better, I think she feels the same way about you.”

He balks at that. “Wait, really? Did she say that?” Does he want her to say that? Does he feel that way about her? Does he – his sister is messing with him.

“Well, no,” Jellybean admits and ducks away from his fingers reaching to flick her ear. “Hey, she might not have said it, but it’s like the video, okay?” She swats his fingers, falling back against the arm of the porch swing as the cheap metal frame squeals in pain.

“Like the video how?” Jughead charges, ready to start pinching. She must be messing with him.

Jellybean lifts her bare foot, a clear warning that if he attempts one pinch she will hoof him in the beak. “Obvious.”

* * *

Later that night, Jughead stares at the glow-in-the-dark constellations on his ceiling unable to fall asleep. If his gaze were a projector, it would be Betty across his ceiling, the reels and reels of tape he has of her. How did he end up with so much footage of Betty?

From a subjective standpoint, it makes sense. They are best friends. He has easier access to her than the other contestants; therefore, he would have more footage of her. Yet in the last few days alone, he realizes how much she has monopolized his viewfinder. Even at the judges’ interviews, he barely talked to anyone else, save for Veronica and briefly Nancy Woods, yet Betty featured in half those shots. Any judge worth their salt would see that his documentary was lopsided and worse, biased.

Jellybean can say she is going to make his documentary, and it is clear she is his muse, but Jughead feels like he has failed somehow. The documentary was not supposed to be an ode to Betty Cooper. Watching the footage, it reads less like social commentary and more like a propaganda video promoting beauty pageants, as Penelope Blossom intended. He veered off course and didn’t even realize it because. Because.

There is a soft knock at his bedroom door, one timid nail tapping against the thin plywood. “Jug,” Betty’s low whisper. “Are you awake?”

  
He reaches over and grabs the knob, quietly opening the door to see a sliver of her face peering at him through the small slot, one wide eye as green as a peridot. “Can I come in?”

He nods, and she quickly shoulders in, closing the door behind her with a soft click before climbing over him to get to the other side of the bed. Even when they were kids, Betty hated sleeping near the door, but he feels her knee bump his thigh, her hand balanced briefly on his shoulder, and suddenly he thinks this is a bad idea.

It wouldn’t be weird at any other time. They had sleepovers all the time as kids, but right now, with Jellybean’s claims bouncing around in his skull, he doesn’t know how to act around her. Yet, when she asks him if this is okay, squirming to get comfortable under the covers, he doesn’t have the heart to kick her out. Not after everything that happened tonight. He nods again, turning on his side towards her, their knees knocking.

“I don’t know how you eat so much all the time,” she comments off hand, resting her cheek on his pillow. He notices her hair is down, a lock of it curling over her cheekbone, dripping down her chin. “I feel like I’m going to be full until lunch tomorrow.”

Without thinking, he reaches over and brushes the errant curl behind her ear, immediately covers it up with, “This is how the Jones deal with crisis. Expect my mom to make enough chocolate chip banana pancakes to feed the entire neighborhood tomorrow.”

She snorts, and he realizes she hasn’t said anything about his fingertips lingering at the corner of her jaw. He cannot bring himself to pull away just yet, feeling her jawbone dip into his fingers with her smile, feeling the contentment from the movement.

“I hate chocolate chip pancakes.” He knows that, but it is a Gladys Jones specialty.

Her eyes keep drifting closed, a small smile playing on her lips. She looks so comfortable, and he feels it, too, comfortable and exhausted. Perhaps he could chalk it up to that, sleep-deprivation and knowing the skin beneath her ear is peach soft. Sometimes it hits him like a ton of bricks, how heart-stoppingly beautiful Betty Cooper truly is.

“How many would I have to eat for her to think I’m okay?” she wonders sleepily and then yawns. Her jawbone sinks into his fingers, and he thinks unbidden he could brace them there, keep her jaw like that, lean forward a few bare inches, seal his mouth to hers. Would he know then or does he already know it now? Is it just an allergic reaction or something terminal?

“Are you?” His heart is pounding even though this feels on the border of a dream.

She tilts her face into his hand, sort of nuzzling his palm. “Am I what?”

“Okay,” he clarifies, licking his lips when her eyes drift closed again, one long slow blink that lasts long enough he thinks she has fallen asleep.

Then, she shimmies closer, burying her face in his pillow. She is close enough he can feel the gentle wisps of her breath against his face, slow and measured as her body seeps into sleep, and his hand slides to her shoulder, drawing the covers up.

“I’m glad I have you, Jug,” she whispers, and it melts through his chest like a tidal wave, his heart lurching into his throat to avoid the flood, but it’s too late. It fills him up so quickly. “I don’t think I could go through this without you.”

As she sinks into sleep, nary an inch of space between them and her warmth all around him, he thinks for the first time that he might be in love with Betty Cooper.


	8. loves to see them break

Like he predicts, his mother is already in the kitchen mixing pancake batter. He mumbles a greeting and stumbles toward the Mr. Coffee, reaching blindly for the pot.

Betty is still asleep in his bed, and he rolled out uncharacteristically early for exactly three reasons. One, to run interference if his mom goes looking for Betty in Jelly’s room. Two, to ask his mom to hold the chocolate chips for Betty.

Three, because he woke up with Betty practically laid on top of him, and he was not prepared for it. Bleary-eyed and warm and comfortable with his arm looped along her lower back, it took him a moment to realize there were other less tactful parts of himself that were wide awake. Then, it was like playing operation to get her back onto the other side of the bed without waking her up, thanking his lucky stars that Betty sleeps like the dead.

“Mom, Betty doesn’t like chocolate chip pancakes,” he mumbles, pouring himself coffee by sound alone, the coffee pot clinking loudly against the lip of his mug.

“Who doesn’t like chocolate chip pancakes?” Gladys scoffs, the whisk scraping harshly against the bottom of the bowl.

“I still want some in mine,” he adds, swiping the cluster of browning bananas off the counter and bring them to her.

He exchanges the bananas for her coffee mug, trudging back across the kitchen to freshen up her coffee. Anything to distract himself from his sleepy thoughts about the feel of Betty’s body against his own. He tells himself it is a normal reaction, far more normal than some of the other things that have provoked him. Hell, one time all it took was the act of eating a donut, the thought of which makes him feel even more degenerate, but to be fair, it was fresh out of the oven.

Jellybean shuffles into the kitchen, zeroing in on the coffee mugs until their mother snaps her fingers. “You’ll stunt your growth. Just look at your brother.”

Jughead is six feet tall, same as his father and fairly above average, but all three of Gladys’s brothers were over six feet. Her father was a neat six five, and it didn’t help that they grew the boys big on the Southside. Half his neighbors are in that range, dwarfing Jughead.

Jellybean grumbles and reaches for a juice glass instead. Mumbling under her breath about how Jug got to drink coffee when he was her age, she yanks open the fridge door and grabs the milk.

Leaning against the counter and sipping his coffee, Jughead notices Jellybean studying him over the lip of her glass. She glances meaningfully at his bedroom door down the hall and back at him, raising her eyebrows. Glancing quickly at his mother to make sure she is preoccupied with slicing up bananas, he frowns and shakes his head, mouthing _be cool_.

“Jelly, where’s Betty?” Gladys asks over the plop of bananas slices dropping into the batter.

“Still sleeping, I guess,” his little sister figures.

Jughead gives her a warning look, scanning his brain for a good cover story. It doesn’t help he barely functions this early in the morning.

Gladys looks up from her cooking. “You guess?”

Jellybean arches a brow at Jughead, and he immediately goes about setting up the table, playing dumb. If his mom finds out Betty slept in his room last night, he will probably end up sleeping at Fogarty’s for a few nights in exile, under penalty of a wooden spoon to the ass if he shows his face within a hundred feet of the Jones trailer. Stacking clean plates in the crook of his arm, he ignores his little sister’s loaded look, hoping she will let it go. It’s not as if anything happened last night anyway, but his mother likely wouldn’t hear that detail.

His little sister removes his hook and sighs. “She’s sleeping, mom.” He mouths _thank you_ behind his mother’s back.

Gladys drips water onto the griddle. The drops seize and writhe before evaporating quickly. “Maybe she shouldn’t go to school today.”

“I’m going,” Betty announces, shuffling into the kitchen wearing one of his flannels over her sleep shirt. She hugs it close around herself, rubbing her knuckles into one eye before smiling at him.

Jughead gapes, glancing back and forth between his mother and her, praying Gladys does not notice. There are at least two dozen different flannels in the Jones trailer, some as big as the one that is currently hitting Betty mid-thigh, but none that shade of yellow and blue.

Hot Dog starts barking and Gladys groans, her attention shifting away. “Jellybean, go feed that noisy mutt,” she grumbles, flipping the pancakes sizzling on the griddle. Jellybean glowers and grabs Hot Dog’s bowl off the top of the refrigerator.

Betty takes a seat at the dining table, leaning her chin on her fist and looking up at him with a soft, “Good morning.” Her smile makes his insides floaty and melty, like someone is spinning hot sugar in his gut.

He is about to offer her coffee when his mother directs him to help Jellybean with the giant feed bag. The last time she tried to do it by herself, she tore the bag and Jughead had to wrestle Hot Dog outside before he ate half the pellets scattered on the linoleum. Though the sheepdog is outside, no one is interested in sweeping up several pounds of dog food this early in the morning.

He drags the bag from the pantry and helps hold it steady while she scoops a helping into Hot Dog’s bowl. Betty maneuvers around them to get herself some coffee, and Jughead wills himself to focus on pinching the tear closed and not on his flannel swishing about Betty’s thighs.

Heading for the back door, Jellybean asks their mother not to skimp on the chocolate chips for her and abandons Jughead to renegotiate the bag back into the pantry. His little sister fusses with the sheep dog, herding him back with her leg to keep him from barreling into the house. In case she loses control of him, Jughead quickly shimmies the feed bag back into the pantry and kicks the door closed. At the same time the screen door slams behind her, someone knocks on the front door.

Betty glances up at him over the lip of her coffee mug and then at the door.

“Jesus, what is this, Grand Central?” Gladys carps, reaching over the sink and pinching the blinds apart. “It’s Toni.”

Jughead opens the door and finds Toni already dressed and ready for the day. Or as dressed as she ever is. Barely scraping his chin and weighing next to nothing, he realizes her wardrobe never changes, like seasons don’t affect Toni Topaz.

“What’d I do now?”

“Not everything is about you, Jones,” she chides. “Where’s Betty?”

He steps aside to showcase his best friend at the Jones dining table sipping her coffee, practically Vanna Whites the scene with his hand.

Toni ignores him and raises the dry-cleaning bag. “This was on our roof this morning.”

Betty sets her mug down, gaping at the bag in disbelief. “Oh my god.”

Her palm hard against Jughead’s chest, Toni shoves him out of the way and shoulders inside, depositing the bag over Betty’s outstretched arms. “Your name was on the tag.”

Jughead mouths _come on in_ at the front yard and lets the screen door slam closed, earning a glare from his mother.

“It’s my tap costume,” Betty marvels, peeling the plastic back. Smoothing her hand across the fabric, she inspects it for any tears or burn marks, but there doesn’t appear to be a sequin out of place.

Betty drops the bag on the table and pounces on Toni, wrapping her up in a giant hug and babbling a hundred _thank yous_ into Toni’s crown. Toni hugs her back for a beat before it gets awkward and pats Betty’s shoulder like she is tapping out.

Betty releases her with a grin and lifts the bag, hugging it to her torso. She shows it off to Gladys and Jughead, and he cannot help smiling at her swiveling back and forth, joy in each twist of her hips. He reaches out to finger the ends of the shimmering sequins.

“You have the devil’s luck, girl,” Gladys comments drolly even as she seems just as amazed by this stroke of good fortune.

Betty beams and races down the hall to hide her costume. He is relieved to see her turn into Jellybean’s room and not his own. He almost suggests she hide it in the cold room at the morgue or somewhere with equally as limited public access. Instead, he watches her go like the energy bunny, his eyes stuck on where his flannel ends mid-thigh.

Feeling someone’s gaze on him, he turns to see Toni staring back at him. She doesn’t say anything, but her unreadable look makes him fold his arms across his middle, suddenly feeling defenseless in nothing but his boxers and sleep shirt. He never got his beanie back from Jellybean last night, and it makes him feel exposed.

“Um, you want some coffee?” he offers stiffly, reaching for a clean mug off the hook. There’s a small knowing smile threatening on her face, and he nearly tells her to _stuff it, half-pint_. It’d be easier for him to dissect and analyze his feelings if he wasn’t under everybody else’s microscope at the moment.

Gladys shakes her head in disbelief before returning to whisking chocolate chips into the batter. Betty’s batch is sizzling on the griddle. His mother turns to Toni and juts her elbow at the stove. “You gonna stay for pancakes?”

* * *

The first thing Jughead captures on film that afternoon is Cheryl beelining for Betty and Veronica stretching on the other side of the court.

Intentionally ignoring the camcorder and Veronica, Cheryl offers her lukewarm condolences for last night’s tragedy, turning to Betty with false sympathy, “Betty, I heard. I’m so sorry that happened to you. How are you holding up?

Betty releases her calf and bends toward the other, her response robotic and perfunctory, “It’s so sweet of you to check up on me, Cheryl.” She doesn’t answer the actual question, though, but Cheryl could not care less. It wasn’t about the question. Jughead wonders what the redhead would have done if there wasn’t a camera.

“I’m just hoping your costume made it out okay,” Cheryl probes, looking Betty up and down in the outfit they all must wear for the dance routine – button-up shirts with the tails tied around their waist and very white, very short painter’s shorts.

Betty smiles with teeth, a show of aggression on any other animal. “Actually, Cheryl, you’ll never believe it, but my neighbors found my tap costume on the roof of their house.” She raises her arms high above her in triumph, gently pulling down on one hand in such a way that Jughead almost thinks she is giving Cheryl the bird. “Untouched,” she gets out with a smug groan.

Cheryl’s smile goes mannequin still, staring past Betty. “Really?”

Veronica smirks. “Really.”

“Well, isn’t that lucky,” Cheryl chirps, the apples of her cheeks tight and high up against her eyes, like her smile might cause her face to blow up or implode at any moment. “Nice catching up.” She spins on her heels and returns to her lemmings, waving at them to get up when Nana Blossom rolls herself out onto the stage.

Veronica looks practically predatory tracking the redhead across the key. “She sure has the villainous gloat down pat.”

An errant sob breaks from the stage, directing Jughead’s attention to where Kevin and Josie speak in close commiseration. Kevin is the MC for the pageant and helping the Blossom matriarch with choreography. Jughead should get some screen time with them both before the conclusion of the pageant, but he has been – distracted lately, he laments, wandering toward the stage.

He feels a little guilt for recording it when he doesn’t know what they are talking about. Josie isn’t wearing her dance costume, and by the look on her face, whatever news she gives Kevin is not good. She swipes the running mascara under her eyes and accepts Kevin’s handkerchief. Shaking her head at something Kevin says, she manages a sad smile when his hand squeezes her shoulder. They hug, and then she strides off stage, exiting quietly out the back.

Jughead shuffles up, trying for subtle, but Kevin sucks his teeth at him. “Yes?”

“What happened with Josie?”

Kevin folds his handkerchief and stuffs it into his back pocket. “She lost her voice.”

“How?”

Kevin shrugs, staring at the empty space Josie left behind. “She doesn’t know. Sometimes you can’t predict these things.”

They need to make more headway and soon. The contestants are dropping like flies, and the pageant is this weekend.

As casually as he can manage, he wanders over to where Cheryl rants at her minions about her favorite salon closing in Greendale. He clears his throat to get her attention.

Fists at her waist, her head pivots towards him in true Penelope Blossom fashion. “Yes, hobo?” 

“Would you be interested in doing another interview?”

She brightens instantly, her red lips a vibrant crescent moon around her beaming white smile. “I’d love to. After practice?” Her mouth reminds him of those windup walking teeth, something savage and insatiable about it.

Jughead apologizes and tells her he has something after school, omitting that it is finding proof her mother has been busy as a bee murdering people over a stupid _beauty pageant_. “No, um, how about we meet at the range tomorrow?” he suggests as subtly as possible.

“The archery range?”

“Yeah, it was a good setting last time, and you’re the president,” he explains. This was the best way to get Cheryl to go along with something no questions asked, draw attention to how it would make her look good.

“You have a point,” she concedes, mentioning there is a practice tomorrow. Something lights up in her eyes, probably the opportunity to show off her leadership skills, which would mostly include her taking a verbal machete to the self-esteem of the other members.

“Three o’clock.” She doesn’t ask him if that time works, simply returning to her monologue and expecting Ginger and Tina to catch up.

Jughead notices Kevin plugging the boombox and external speaker into the floor outlet on the stage, and Nana Blossom raising the megaphone from her lap. She flicks the on-switch like she is removing the safety on a weapon, holding the receiver up to her thin lips. The voice that comes out sends a shudder through the entire group of girls. Like she has harpooned each one through the chest, her voice reels them onto the stage one-by one, directing them to their respective stools.

As the girls line up on stage to start the routine, Jughead backs up near the bleachers. Unfortunately, he wanders into the event horizon of a group of Bulldogs loitering on the bleachers.

Chuck waves eagerly at him and then points emphatically at Nancy. “You’re getting her, right, the third one?” he presses, like Jughead needs the constant reminder.

To be fair, he might. Based on his review last night, his camera naturally drifts towards his best friend. Maybe it would help to have someone keep him honest, even if it is Chuck reminding him to focus on Nancy. He needs to remember there is more than one contestant besides the girl that’s making him reevaluate their entire friendship in the span of twenty-four hours.

Reggie cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Perve!”

Chuck smacks his friend in the chest. “Hey, he’s gonna make my baby a star, so shut your mouth. Jones is a professional, right?” he argues, leaning over the railing and telling Jughead he has his back.

Then, he leans down to whisper, “You are a professional, right, Jones?”

It doesn’t sound like a threat, but Jughead feels something like panic condensing in his chest. Not because he thinks Chuck would change his tune if he sensed Jughead’s intentions were less than pure, but because. He is a professional. _Right?_

Reggie thinks Jughead those thoughts about the girls. It feels like the pot calling the kettle black, but Jughead doesn’t know if he is a kettle. He always considered himself a passive observer, a people watcher. Sure, he has opinions about what he sees, but attraction or sexuality rarely enter the equation. Even when they do, he does not include himself in those reflections. He is a social commentariat and nothing more, but now he looks at Betty Cooper and realizes he cannot look away.

“All aboveboard,” Jughead assures Chuck, who nods and takes it at face value.

Ducking out from underneath the Bulldogs’ scrutiny, Jughead feels some of the pressure ebb, but he studies Chuck’s face for a moment, the way he looks at Nancy Woods twirling about the stage. His attraction and adoration are obvious. Jug wonders if that is what he looks like when he watches Betty because he thinks if he could have feelings like that about anyone, it would be her. Yet just because he would, does that mean he does? Can he translate the amount of footage he has of Betty to romantic attraction? Is that how it works?

Because he loves Betty. He does. He always has, but trying to tease apart the love he feels for Betty as his closest friend and constant companion from the possibility of being in love with her – he cannot discern a difference.

Moving across the court to get a different angle, he captures Betty and Nancy synchronizing their high kicks. Betty takes a break, sweeping a hand across her sweaty forehead and shaking the front of her button-up. Her cheeks flushed and shiny and so many golden fly-aways escaping her bandana, she grins back at Nancy. Her smile really is like a lighthouse, a guiding beacon that Jughead cannot stop moving toward.

Jughead watches Nana Rose roll herself to the other side of where Ginger and Tina are stepping up onto their stools with all the enthusiasm of jazzercise instructors. The old woman snaps her fingers insistently to the beat of the music, counting them out in stern, bitten off syllables, but Ginger is a half-measure behind, and then Tina slips and takes the stool to the groin. Sliding off with a grimace, she curls into a ball clutching her pelvic bone.

Nana Rose scoffs and tells her to go get some ice. “Back in fifteen or you’re out of the pageant.”

Breathing hard, Veronica steps down from the stage, crouching to sift through her duffle for a water bottle. “Nana Rose is not as harmless as she looks.”

“Look at this hothouse flower,” Jughead jokes, grateful for the distraction. His thoughts keep looping into knots.

Veronica scowls and squirts him. He dodges the line of fire, raising the camcorder above his head. “Hey, watch it, this thing wasn’t cheap.”

Veronica rolls her eyes. “Where’d you get that anyway? Fisher Price, my first video camera,” she counters sharply, taking a long swig of water.

“I’d bite your tongue,” he warns, zooming on her face. “Some filters might make you eat your words.”

It is a bluff, but she doesn’t need to know that. Sweeping the viewfinder up to the stage, he gets a shot of Betty sending her foot above her head again while Nancy counts. She never seems to run out of energy, and he cannot help thinking she has great legs.

“Oh, thank god,” Veronica exclaims, dragging Jughead’s attention back.

“What?” He didn’t say that out loud, did he?

“You finally figured it out.”

“Figured what out?”

She stands up and points at his chin like she is pointing out the guilty party in a lineup. “It’s all over your face.”

“What’s all over my face? What are you talking about?” he asks, nudging her finger away with the camcorder.

She smirks and waves her hand over his face like she wants to wash it. “ _Feelings_.”

Jughead swallows painfully, glancing nervously at the stage and back at Veronica, trying to come up with some excuse.

Veronica’s features soften into sympathy and maybe pride, like he’s a kid that just figured out how to go to the bathroom by himself. “You finally got there,” she commends, grabbing his shoulders and guiding him backwards, so they are out of earshot of the stage. “Took you long enough. I thought when Adam asked her out _right in front of you_ , it’d finally kick you in the pants.”

“Veronica,” he starts, but she cuts him off, pinching his red, hot cheek, “Oh, happy day, you dense dweeb.”

He sees Betty wave at him over the brunette’s shoulder, nodding at Veronica and sending him the question telepathically. _Everything alright?_

He smiles nervously at Betty, hoping to convey that everything is fine, but he can tell she isn’t buying it. Any moment she will hop off the stage and come marching over, so he quickly tells the brunette interrogating him, “Veronica, I’m still figuring it out.”

Betty is at the edge of the stage, and Veronica quirks a brow at him. “What is there to figure out? You like her. She likes you. Tell her. End this _wlll they, won’t they_ nonsense. It’s getting old,” she argues.

Jughead hears Betty’s sneakers land on the court, can see the suggestion of her out of focus over Veronica’s shoulder. “She likes me?”

“With the way she talks about you, the way she looks at you, I’m honestly surprised you never noticed. No wonder she never dated anyone until Adam.”

Betty is almost within hearing distance, but Veronica doesn’t know it yet, and she keeps going, “He was like the only guy with enough confidence to try, bless his heart and may he rest in peace.” She crosses herself and mouths something at the ceiling before leveling with Jughead. “It’s like an impenetrable barrier between you two.”

“Between who?”

Betty is here, and Jughead feels like a fish out of water. Or worse, a fish that tried to jump the rapids and landed on a rock.

Gasping and flailing on dry land, he blurts out, “Nancy and Chuck.” Stepping out of Veronica’s spotlight, he muses, “They’re practically attached at the hip, right?”

Betty glances up at the bleachers where Chuck watches his girlfriend strut around the stage, googly-eyed and rapt. Her attention on the Bulldogs releases some of the tension in Jughead’s chest, feeling like he dodged a bullet. He looks at Veronica and knows she still has a few in the chamber with his name on them.

“He does show up to every practice. It’s actually really endearing, even if, you know, all the PDA,” Betty says in agreement.

Veronica looks like it is taking everything in her not to say something, chewing the inside of her cheek. Yet when Betty’s attention turns back to them, she smiles like nothing is wrong.

Betty touches his shoulder, an everyday occurrence, but he can feel Veronica giving him the eye. “Hey, Jug, I have to raincheck on the _Blue and Gold_ stuff. Again,” Betty laments. “Nana Rose said she’s going to keep us here until we get it right, but.” They all look at Tina sprawled stage right with a bag of ice resting on her nethers.

“Yeah, no worries,” he brushes off, ignoring Veronica’s probing look. He can tell the brunette is fighting a teasing smirk. “You want me to wait? So we can walk home together.” He wants to grab Veronica’s exercise towel and flip it over her smug face.

Veronica loops her arm around Betty’s waist. “How about I take over guard duty tonight, Jones?” she offers, resting her head on Betty’s shoulder. “Besides, Betty and I haven’t had a girl’s night in ages. You can’t keep bogarting her.”

Nana Rose yells at the girls to get back into formation. They’re going again. Betty sighs, rolling out of Veronica’s arms. “Duty calls.”

Veronica lets her skip back to the stage, watching her go for a moment before rounding on Jughead. “Don’t worry, I’ll lay some groundwork tonight.”

“Wait, what? Don’t do that,” he whispers hurriedly.

She flicks him on the forehead. “No more wasting time, Jughead. That’s final.”

Before he can persuade her not to humiliate him, she flits towards the stage with a tinkling _later_. Jughead looks down and realizes he just recorded the entire exchange. The tape has run out.

* * *

Betty is probably much safer with Veronica at the Pembroke, yet Jughead doesn’t sleep a wink that night.

He can smell her shampoo wafting from his pillow. Reaching across the mattress, he feels no warmth from where she slept the night before, but he keeps hearing phantom murmurs. Every time he drifts to sleep, there is a little purr, a pleased hum because sometimes Betty talks in her sleep. Not loudly and rarely coherently, but she does it when she is really asleep, the heavy, epic dream sort of sleep that Jughead couldn’t wake her if he tried.

Last night those soft mumblings followed him into his own dreams, and he hears them now. Each time he starts to slide off this plane of consciousness, and each time there is the specter of a sigh, his eyes shoot open and he turns to find her where she isn’t.

At one point, he groans and rolls over, shoving his face into the pillow and succumbing to vanilla. Despite being exhausted, he cannot even shut his thoughts down long enough to fall into fitful sleep. He cannot dam the dread, doubled by the specter hanging over their heads, his anxieties snowballing because who knows what Veronica might be telling his best friend, what sort of ‘groundwork’ the brunette is laying on his behalf. More importantly, he cannot stop imagining Betty’s response.

Would she laugh? Would she make the friend excuse or? Or.

Would he have to face the ramifications of his feelings tomorrow? What response is he hoping for? Better, what is his?

Jughead hugs the pillow close, turning and staring at the empty side of his bed. He cannot help thinking, _why now_. Nothing is different. At least, nothing has happened between them that would explain whatever thing is cramping and rolling in his stomach.

He starts to wonder if it had always been there, but he didn’t recognize it until someone pointed it out for him because yes, he could be thick. He knew that. Rubbing the tightness in his chest, he now knows where all this recent indigestion is coming from.

Considering the timing, he feels foolish, that these feelings didn’t manifest until there was the very real prospect of losing her, to Adam, to college, to some potential future that did not include him. The signs were there. He just ignored them because the idea of tying Betty down was antithetical to everything their friendship stood for. They lifted each other up. They didn’t hold each other down.

He just doesn’t understand why being in love with Betty should be any different from the love he has felt for her up until this point because it doesn’t feel different. He guesses that the only real dissimilarity between the two is that now he wants to kiss her. And more.

He wants to be the one to take her on dates to Sweetwater swimming hole and be her bottom for a game of chicken. He wants to be the one she makes out with in the woods. He wants to sit in the back of the theatre for some crappy B-movie double-feature and yell at the screen until they eventually get distracted by each other’s mouths. It’s strange because these are all things he would do with her anyway as her best friend, just with kissing. And other things. Yes, the other things. The moment he imagined it, suddenly it was all he wanted to be doing with her. Therefore, it wouldn’t be different to him, just – more.

He wants to think their relationship wouldn’t change all that much, but he knows that isn’t always the case. If they got together in the traditional sense and broke up later down the road, would their friendship survive the fallout? Because Jughead cannot imagine a reality where he isn’t at least friends with Betty Cooper. The mere thought is psychological torture, his insides twisting with imaginary grief.

He remembers what she said before, about feeling the mysterious _it_. _When you know, you know_ , and in this moment, everything inside of him _knows_. Like a lightning strike, it is unavoidable and arresting.

Still, was asking them to take their friendship to another level worth the risk of losing it all at some unforeseeable time in the future? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ever trust me on chapter count.


	9. doll parts, bad skin, doll heart

Betty is wrapped up with pageant preparations for most of the day, so he doesn't see much of her. He is grateful because last night’s ruminations yielded little clarity. At least, little clarity about what he should do, and at the moment, he leans toward keeping his trap shut. Potentially ruining it just because he wants to kiss Betty, it seems selfish. Besides, what they have now, it is enough for him.

The last bell rings right behind his head, and he jerks up in his seat like someone dropped the mallet on a high striker, his consciousness the puck rising and striking the bell. He has a couple hours to kill before his meeting with Cheryl. Though there are knives in his eyes and he would love to curl up in the armchair of the _Blue and Gold_ , he worries he won’t wake up, so he hides in the audio-visual studio to get some editing done.

His conversation with Jellybean was a necessary kick in the pants in the sense that it pushed him to expand his viewfinder to include more than the magnetic tapdancing blonde miracle that was Betty Cooper. It pleases him to see more footage of the other players. The shots he got of Nana Blossom are comedic gold.

He is pulled out of editing by a knock at the door. The studio isn’t far from the art room, so when Toni pokes her head in, he isn’t surprised.

“Mind if I sit in?”

He presses stop and tips his chair back, clasping his hands behind his head. “I can guarantee you look very camera-ready, Topaz, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Without warning, she plants her foot on his knee and tips him the rest of the way. He bails sideways, landing hard on his shoulder but not his head, thank god. “You know you can break someone’s neck that way,” he gripes, righting his chair.

He rolls his shoulder and gestures at the chair next to him. “Be my guest,” he offers to avoid any more wrath.

Toni rolls her eyes and takes a seat, throwing her bag up on the counter.

He watches her retrieve her sketchbook from her bag and asks, “No art club today?”

“There is, but Kandinsky wants us doing mixed media. I’m not in the mood,” she explains, flipping to a blank page. “You don’t mind if I hang out here for a bit?”

He nudges his notebook closer, sliding the pen out from behind his ear. “Doesn’t bother me. I’d appreciate your input.”

He hears charcoal scratching across the page. “If you’re okay with my honest opinion.”

“Wouldn’t settle for anything less.” He fast-forwards to his first interview with Cheryl. It feels like ages ago now.

He should get some shots today of her shooting. He might be able to goad her into doing a trick shot from the same distance Adam was felled. Just in case anyone needed evidence of her capabilities.

When she doesn’t understand his idiom about catching flies with honey, he scoffs out loud, not realizing Toni has been watching the entire time. “She is exhausting.” He rewinds to the beginning again, adding with false cheer, “And I get to do it all over again in,” looks up at the clock, “Half an hour.” He needs to wrap it up soon.

“I think you’re too hard on Cheryl,” Toni says defensively. 

“What?”

“I’m just saying you don’t have the full picture here,” Toni argues, scratching her cheek with the end of her pencil.

Cheryl makes a blanket statement about losers. Jughead replays it in case Toni missed it. “I can only show what she gives me.”

Toni doesn’t budge, though, staring at Cheryl’s manic, mannequin smile with an emotion Jughead cannot place. Compassion? “Take it with a grain of salt, Jones. You don’t know what’s going on behind the scenes,” she adds, scooting her chair back and standing up. “For what it’s worth.”

* * *

With Toni’s comments crawling through the cracks in his thoughts, he trudges to the archery range alone. There is nothing he wants more than a nap, but the opportunity to snag one of Cheryl’s arrows keeps him putting one foot in front of the other.

Cheryl waits at the same table, same full garb, same position, the other club members practicing behind her. It gives him déjà vu.

Yawning, he practically falls onto the bench, dragging his camcorder from his messenger bag.

“You look worse than usual,” Cheryl notes.

Sliding a fresh tape into the slot and snapping it closed, he tamps down the urge to snap, _do you actually care?_ Instead, he musters as much charm as he can manage and asks, “How are you today, Cheryl?”

She looks to be working out his angle, unable to match his upbeat tone to the bruises beneath his eyes. “Fine, as always,” she says, removing her red cloak. Summer is about to be on top of them.

“Do you mind if I ask some questions about your extracurriculars?”

“I imagine that’s why you wanted to meet here,” she figures, carding her fingers through that otherworldly fall of red. 

“Does it factor into the pageant?”

She nods. “They consider it.”

“They want someone well-rounded,” he supposes.

“They like to see girls who have a life.”

“Would you say archery is your passion?”

“One of them,” she cedes. “Archery has been a longstanding tradition in my family for generations, since before we came to America.”

He indicates the quiver of arrows leaning against the bench seat. “Those are interesting arrows. They’re not like the ones the other members use.” He gestures at the practice arrows the rest of the team shoot downrange.

She slides one from the quiver and holds it up to the camera. “These are custom-made,” she reveals, and Jughead thinks, _hook, line, and sinker_.

He asks her to go into detail, and she waltzes right into the snare without hesitation. The realization wakes him up. Cheryl is not involved. She can be blinded by vanity, but Cheryl Blossom is not dumb. If she were involved in Adam’s death, he would expect her to be more defensive.

She angles the arrow’s shaft at the camera. “They’re made in England by a family we’ve used for almost one hundred years. We send them the wood from the cedars on our estate. Of course, they’re a little more modern now,” she explains, pointing the broadhead at him.

“The metal?” he prompts.

“High carbon steel. See?”

He does with wary appreciation. The coroner determined it was a broad head based on the width of the wound in Adam’s chest. Though Curdle didn’t look for it, he wonders if they could determine the type of wood from anything left in the wound, a splinter or something. Perhaps the width of the broadhead would give it away if it was an uncommon tip.

“It’s lovely,” he acknowledges. “What kind of arrows do the other members use?”

It gets the right response. Cheryl’s gaze turns toward the club members. She spots one of the juniors struggling to restring their bow and scoffs. “Give me a moment,” she says, excusing herself to help the rookie.

Jughead scans around to see if anyone is watching and lifts one of the arrows out of the quiver. It won’t fit in his messenger bag, so he stuffs it down the back of his pants, draping his shirt over it quickly as Cheryl turns around. She offers a practiced smile at the camera, demonstrating what a helpful team captain she can be, and he gives her a thumbs up.

Jughead endures about ten more minutes of the interview, inquiring about Jason and handling tense retorts about her mother. He keeps her pliable and unassuming by keeping the focus on her until he makes up some excuse to get the hell out of there.

When he slings his messenger bag over his shoulder, he feels the broadhead poke him in his lower back, and it. Does. Not. Feel. Good. He gives Cheryl a stiff smile and thanks her for her time before turning rigidly. Luckily, Cheryl doesn’t give him any more attention than is necessary and doesn’t notice his pain, returning to her practice.

As soon as he walks out of the range, he veers off the road and behind some maples. Reaching under his shirt, he gingerly draws the arrow from his pants and feels along his back with the other hand. His fingers come away wet with blood, and he sighs. The things he does for an investigation.

* * *

When he gets home, his mom is bustling around the living room tossing Jellybean’s colored pencils into the purple bin next to the coffee table. She nicks herself on the loose edge of a sharpener and curses under her breath. “I swear, I should just toss this all in the trash. How many times do I have to tell her to clean up after herself?”

Jughead just wants to crawl to his bedroom and fall onto the bed, but his mother’s dark eyes latch onto him. She crooks a finger, and he trudges over, holding his arms out. Shoving the bin into his arms, she orders him specifically to dump the contents on his sister’s bed.

“Mom,” he groans. He just wants to sleep.

Gladys throws her hands up, not hearing it.

He marches to his sister’s room, his chin dropping sleepily to his chest. Without knocking, he opens the door to an eyeful of Betty Cooper topless and feels every muscle in his body condense into concrete. It is either all the tapdancing or the stress of the pageant, but Betty has a beautiful body. It is the thought that gets stuck to the sticky flypaper in his mind, his mouth going dry at the sight.

In the process of pulling her shirt off, she cannot see who it is, venturing timidly, “Jellybean?”

Jughead drops the bin on the carpet and backs up into his bedroom, almost tripping over his feet. At the same time Betty untangles herself from her shirt, he slams his bedroom door closed.

“Juggie!” she shouts across the narrow hallway, hearing her kick Jelly’s drawing bin in a clumsy grab for the doorknob.

He leans his forehead against the door, his heart racing. “Sorry,” he calls through the door, knocking his forehead over and over against the wood.

* * *

He wants to broach her girl’s night with Veronica, but every opening he comes up with is the verbal equivalent of an invitation into a shallow grave. Betty hasn’t hinted that anything is different, so maybe he would be shooting himself in the foot by bringing it up first anyway. 

He freshens up her glass and his own before taking a seat at the picnic table. She hasn’t mentioned his little slip-up from earlier either. He still cannot look her in the eye, tipping the dish of fresh lemon slices towards her while finding the label on the chip bag beyond fascinating. Munching on a chip, he feels her staring at his face, her gaze burning a hole in the spot where she kissed him at the hospital.

She finally addresses the elephant at the picnic table first. “Why are you being so awkward? We’ve taken baths together, Jug. It was no worse than seeing me in a bathing suit.”

Jughead shoves another fistful of chips into his mouth and washes it down with half the lemonade in his glass. He covers his mouth and thanks her when she refills his juice glass. She doesn’t say anything, picking up one of the lemon slices and sucking on it.

He fiddles with the camcorder next to the pitcher of lemonade. It has become second-nature to take it with him everywhere he goes, a convenient thing to place between himself and the other when things become too uncomfortable. He wants to use it now, shift the attention back towards neutral ground. He feels safer watching her from behind the viewfinder, likes having the excuse to observe her from the other side of the lens.

Jughead asks her if she minds, flipping the viewing window open. She seems reluctant at first, like she knows he wants to change the subject. “Fine,” she cedes, waving her hand at the camcorder.

“Have you found a replacement for your pageant gown yet?” he wonders, trying to replace the image of Betty’s bare torso with the more modest vision of her in her evening gown.

It doesn’t work right away, the picture of her breasts in her purple polka-dotted bra seared on the backs of his retinas.

She’s right, though. It was no different than seeing her in a bikini, which he has seen her in plenty of times. If anything, it was tamer than that, certainly less risqué than the red two-piece she wore on her date with Adam. Yet, Jughead feels something stir that wasn’t there before.

As soon as Veronica and – Jesus – his own little sister made a few observations, it was like someone tugged a main nerve from the love hub in his brain and hooked it up to the lobe labeled _Betty Cooper is objectively gorgeous_ , but it was a very specific section of the love hub, that not so little bit earmarked for his best friend Betty Cooper, whom he did love, had always loved. Linking the two had transformed that simple _I love Betty_ into _I am in love with Betty_ , and what a difference it made. A small addition of words, innocuous on their own, were given so much weight when lined up in the right way.

And now the two are amplifying, feeding off one another. Now all he can seem to focus on is how goddamned beautiful Betty is and all the other remarkable things he loves about her. The word keeps reverberating around in his skull _, love_ , and reconciling this extra element with Betty’s objective beauty is not – easy.

“No,” Betty grumbles, tracing shapes in the condensation on her glass. “It was so perfect, too.”

It was. The red silk, the thin straps, the scooped back, Betty was showstopping in it.

His mother crashes into the picnic table, sloppily setting her stemless glass next to the pitcher, the wine sloshing dangerously up against the sides. She lays a plastic dry-cleaning bag on Betty’s lap. “There, I dug that up for you.”

Betty flattens the dress on the table, reaching beneath the plastic to feel the material. “Oh my god, it’s gorgeous, Gladys,” she exclaims, running her fingers across the liquid cream-colored fabric. “It’s just like Diane Sawyer’s.”

She lifts the dress, showcasing the tasteful empire-waist to the camcorder. “Of course, it’s not a size ten,” she points out, laying the dress on the bench next to her. “Diane was a little hippy back then.”

Gladys tucks a lock of Betty’s hair behind her ear, smiling fondly at her. “You’re gonna look gorgeous regardless.” At the same time, Jughead thinks he would love her regardless.

His mother notices the condiments are missing. She won’t eat a hamburger without her homemade sweet relish, which Jughead finds disgusting. Gladys disappears back into the trailer before Betty can thank her properly.

“Nothing slows her down, huh,” Betty muses, leaning her chin on her fist.

He thinks the same about her, and as soon as the affectionate thought hits his brain, he starts to feel the word vomit bubbling up from the base of his sternum like bad heartburn.

“So,” she starts, tipping the bag of potato chips towards her. “ _Blue and Gold_ after school tomorrow?” she asks, pumping her eyebrows at him.

There isn’t much time left before the pageant Saturday night, and they have plenty of new evidence to review. It reminds him, too, that there are more important things to worry about than the confliction of his feelings. If he truly cared about her, he would make this new big bad his only priority. She has so much on her mind already that it wouldn’t be fair bombarding her with his feelings, which he hasn’t even sorted yet.

“You know it,” he returns, smashing the chip bag closed when she goes for one. It earns a scowl and provokes the most heated tug-of-war Jughead has ever experienced. There is more than one burned patty by the end of it.

* * *

Jughead lays Jellybean’s videotape on the desk, squaring it with the corner. As soon as the hallways cleared for the weekend, he filched a television and VCR from the AV room and snuck it into the _Blue and Gold_.

When he checks the slot, he finds the pageant’s recruitment video left behind. He wouldn’t want Mrs. Lopez to miss finding out whether Bianca’s love interest Antonio is her long-lost brother or a sleeper cell planted by the nefarious Cassius. Yes, Gladys is one of millions of loyal viewers that tune in weekly to watch _Meet Your Love Maker_. It is a Cooper-Jones family group activity Monday after school. Everyone on the Southside knows Alice closes shop early to adhere to the tradition.

Powering up the VHS, he presses eject, but nothing comes out of the slot. Not ideal, and Penelope Blossom just left it in there for someone else to deal with, probably expecting the AV nerds to have some tricks up their sleeves.

He finds a screwdriver in the desk drawer and starts working the shank into the slot, attempting to pop the tape out of the basket. Eventually, he loses patience, smacking the top of the player at the same moment Betty waltzes into the office. As he looks up at her, the player spits the tape at him with a disconcerting whine of the gears. 

He gingerly guides the tape from the player. Ribbons of film trail the cassette. He guesses Mrs. Lopez will just have to catch up with the recap or the other house moms on the Northside.

Betty picks up Jellybean’s tape and reads the label. “Are we sure we want to chance it eating our tape, too?”

He tosses the destroyed tape in the trash and then picks up one of the randoms stacked on the bottom of the dolly. “Guinea pig tape?” he suggests, waggling it at her.

“What if it’s important?” Betty cautions.

Jughead tips the label toward him, reading aloud, “October 1995 Bulldogs v. Ravens Game Tape.”

Betty pulls her chair out. “Yeah, play it.”

Jughead feeds the tape into the player and presses play when he hears Betty’s sharp hiss behind him. “What? What happened?” Turning around, he sees her with her index finger caught between her lips.

“Damn, that’s sharp,” she says, indicating the arrow poking out of his messenger bag.

Jughead is intimately acquainted with how sharp the Blossoms keep their arrows, lifting his shirt and showing Betty the cut on his back. “How did that even happen? Did Cheryl stab you?”

Would were it that heroic. “It was the only way to get it out of there without anyone noticing.”

She gapes at him. “You shoved it down your pants?”

He shrugs, drawing the arrow from his bag.

“It’s a fine piece of craftsmanship,” he marvels, showing her the tip.

“Custom-made?” she inquires, inspecting the shaft.

He nods, adding, “With the cedars on their property.”

She grins incredulously at the ceiling. “That’s perfect.”

“How much you want to bet these arrowheads are a nonstandard size, too,” he continues, laying the arrow on the desk. He goes searching through her drawers for a ruler, working around her while she studies.

Remembering something, he drops the ruler next to her hand and lays his body out on her desk and reaching for his bag sitting on his chair. “Also, I developed that film.” He pulls the envelope out and withdraws himself back across the desk, falling into the chair next to her.

“Thanks for considering the lighting this time,” he says, opening the envelope and pulling out the stack of photos. “I was thinking we could hit up the fire marshals soon,” he suggests, sifting through the images. 

“Shoot, tacks.” He yanks open the top drawer she reserves for office sundries, combing through chewed-up pens and unfinished packs of gum for the tin of tacks.

“Jug.”

It carries his gaze toward her, a giddy smile threatening on his mouth before she subverts it with the sudden press of her lips against his own. It lasts all of a couple seconds, but to Jughead, it feels like hours.

She pulls away to the tinny sound of the announcer congratulating the Ravens on another touchdown, score Ravens 16-0.

He doesn’t know what he looks like, but he can tell her eyes are starting to water with fear, that she didn’t mean to do it, that something worked beyond her. He thinks she is trembling, and when he braces his hand behind her neck, the physical evidence is there, but he calms the tremors instantly with a swift duck of the head, sealing his mouth over her own. Her pleased little grunt of surprise spurs him on, working his fingers against the soft nape of her neck, his nose nudging hers as he takes her bottom lip between his own.

He releases her mouth but keeps his palm firmly in place, bumping his forehead into hers. “Veronica,” he wonders aloud, the first coherent thought to surface from the onslaught of endorphins in his kiss-drunk brain.

She scoffs and then smiles fondly. “Is that really who you’re thinking about in the middle of our moment?”

He shakes his head, rubbing their foreheads together. “No, no,” he gets out. “Just trying to figure out where your head is at. Veronica said – ball rolling.”

She tips her face up again, another patient press of her lips to his own. “The ball was already rolling, Jug.” She cups his cheek. “I’ve always wanted to.”

He tries to control his breathing, feeling like he might upchuck his lungs at any moment. “Since when?”

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “But a while.”

Her fingers smooth down his cheekbone, her little tremors returning, but now he thinks it might be adrenaline, too, so many good feelings because his gut somersaults. “You never said anything.”

She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, uncertainty cinching her eyebrows together, and he quickly shakes his head again. “I just mean I couldn’t tell.”

Which isn’t on her, really. He never showed any inclination, but now with his heart tapdancing in his chest, he thinks it might have always been there. He was simply waiting for someone to point out the obvious, and then all the various pieces of himself that loved Betty in so many ways fit together. The puzzle became a picture, and with it the certainty and clarity with which he loved her, was in love with her.

“Is it okay?” she asks, doubt in her voice.

“It’s,” he starts, pausing, because there doesn’t seem to be any words that would fully encompass what this is.

There is only one thing he could say that would tell her everything she needs to know because even if things get rough between them down the road, he wants her to know it. He will always be all-in with her, no matter what, and that supersedes any potential fallout in some unknowable future. He loved her before this, and he knows he will love her even if there is an after. “I feel the same.”

Her responding smile spins more sugar on his insides. Even with so much misfortune behind them and adversity ahead of them, despite rocky cliffs and a sloshing sea, he knows he will always make it to shore by her smile alone.

“So,” he muses, his gaze stuck on her mouth. “I know it’s going to be hard for both of us.” By the look in her eye, she is thinking the same thing, her fingers tripping along his jawline. He wants nothing more than to spend the rest of the afternoon making out, especially now that they get to and it’s been at the forefront of his brain for days now, but they have a murder investigation to finish.

“But, we should really bear down and find this smoking gun,” he reasons, his hand moving to her shoulder, squeezing once before releasing her with a dissatisfied sigh.

She pats his chest and nods glumly. “Look at you being the voice of reason.”

“Yes, shame on me for wanting you to survive this – Jesus, beauty pageant,” he quips back.

“When you say it like that,” she trails, scooping up the photos he dropped on the desk.

“Tacks, please,” she requests, holding her hand out.

Surprised he didn’t drop them during the entire exchange, he slaps them onto her palm. He uses it as an excuse to grab her wrist and pull her forward, laying one last kiss on her before they get down to – brass tacks, he thinks wryly. She smiles into it, and he marvels that that is all it takes, that he makes her feel as good as he does, that it flows as simply as that.

“Task at hand, Juggie,” she reminds him. With some reluctance, he lets her go.

While she pins the new photos to the investigation board, he notices the tape is still playing. He stops it and presses eject. The player spits out the tape with no fuss, so he feels a little better about handing Jellybean’s recording to the unpredictable mercy of the machine. He finds he doesn’t mind so much now, leaving it up to chance and pressing play.

* * *

Betty groans and presses her knuckles to her eyes. “We’re never going to figure this out!”

Jughead slings his arm along her shoulders and draws her closer. They are on their fifth viewing of the sign-up meeting and have nothing to show from the last three hours.

Jellybean’s recording yielded zilch. It was only thirty seconds long. In summary, it was Jinx and Joaquin timing their start, playing one power chord, and then a bright flash over their shoulders before the camera cut out. The resolution was too poor to make out any details around the Cooper’s trailer before it blew up.

The arrow offered up a bit more to the story. The width of the arrowhead matched Adam’s wound, but neither Betty nor Jughead know enough about archery or arrowhead manufacturers to make any determination whether that implicated the Blossoms. They decide to call some local archery stores on Monday, which doesn’t stop Jughead from making a bad joke about whether they even make it to Monday.

“Short of a confession, we can’t pin this on anyone,” Betty gripes.

She folds her arms tightly across her middle, glaring at the television screen. He curls his hand around the tension points he feels in her neck and shoulder, working at the knots.

“You keep doing that, we’re not going to get anymore work done,” she says, leaning into him.

“Why’s that?” he teases, his hand moving up to the back of her neck. Jughead is starting to think they might do better with a break, and he knows exactly what he wants to do. She slides her fingers over his own, her grin mischievous and tempting enough he wants to snatch it up.

With each wall they hit, they lose a little bit more of their collective momentum. It isn’t over. They have a few more avenues to explore, but they are hitting too many dead ends right now. The pageant is tomorrow night, which Betty will spend the entire day preparing for.

“It’s okay if we don’t figure it out right this second,” he assures her, throwing a defeated look up at their board.

She follows his gaze, sighing. “I know. It doesn’t end when the pageant ends, but I can’t say I’m not nervous about going into tomorrow without knowing.”

“You’ve got people looking out for you, Betts,” he reminds her. “Veronica said she will be on you like wet on water. I’ll be backstage most of the time. My mother is going to keep an eye on the crowd. You’re not alone.”

Her smile is almost sad, too soft, and his heart cramps when she pats his cheek. She leans over and kisses the corner of his mouth before planting a chaste one on his bottom lip. “Thank you.”

He can’t stand it anymore, swallowing thickly and cupping the back of her head. “Break?”

  
She nods emphatically, grabbing the front of his shirt and hauling him towards her.

Jughead has kissed exactly two people before Betty – Ethel Muggs to know what it was like and Trula Twyst on a dare. He wouldn’t say he disliked it, and he got a good lesson out of it. Trula taught him to French. It was more a take it or leave it situation. He can definitely say now that he enjoys kissing Betty.

He tries to put his finger on the sensation it gives him. Betty is one of the few people who can tolerate Jughead at his worst. Even when he is ranting and raving and alienating everyone within earshot, Betty stays. Better, Betty always says the exact thing needed to calm him down. She always says what he needs to hear to feel seen and, more importantly, understood. That is what it feels like to kiss Betty and more. He can feel a new depth to her understanding in each one.

He applies more pressure, and Betty responds in kind, her hand tangled up in his shirt and yanking him toward her. The moment he ventures a little tongue, he hears it, a delighted little noise in the back of Betty’s throat. It is all the incentive he needs to do it again, sweeping his tongue along her own. He feels his heart speed up when Betty grows bolder, meeting his tongue with her own, but before he can show his appreciation, she seems to catch on something.

Betty pulls away suddenly, tilting her head towards the television.

Alarmed, he untangles his hand from her ponytail. “What’s wrong? Too much?”

She winces, turning back to him and cupping his cheek. “No, God, no, sorry,” she apologizes quickly. “No, that was – amazing. I’m sorry, I think I heard something on the tape.”

The tape that neither bothered to pause before they started sucking face, but he is almost amazed she heard anything at all. His senses were completely caught up in her. He needs to work on his game.

She gets up and rewinds it, turning up the volume. Veronica and Evelyn Evernever are talking about their talents. It is nothing they haven’t seen before, but then Betty says, “Hear it?”

He closes his eyes and leans toward the television. In between Evelyn and Veronica’s back and forth, he hears the soft undertones of another conversation, a smattering of words. One of the voices is obviously Penelope Blossom, and while he has had minimal contact with her, he thinks the other is Midge Klump. When he opens his eyes, sure enough there are Midge and Penelope conversing at the other end of the refreshments table, not ten feet away from Veronica and Evelyn.

He feels Betty staring at his face, and when he turns to look at her, her eyes are electric. “You think we can figure out what they’re saying?”

His heart starts racing for an entirely different reason. “I could pull the audio track off the tape, and yeah, we might be able to. The studio probably isn’t open right now, though.”

She looks mildly offended. “Oh, Juggie, since when have locks ever stopped me.”

“Betts, I’m pretty sure there’s not much that can stop you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna take a break for the holidays, but this seems like a good stopping point until the finale. Thank you all for reading and happy holidays!


	10. fake it so real (i am beyond fake)

“She might’ve seen her the day Midge was killed, Sheriff,” Jughead shouts across the desk.

Keller picks up the tape and snaps it in half. It is the cassette from the emergency room Jug brought, as promised (after he made a copy). He figured the sheriff was going to trash it anyway, but to do it right in front of his face.

Jughead checks the time. He is supposed to meet his mom at the gym and take over Betty watch. Gladys has to drive all the way to the Sisters to pick up Polly, and then stop by the hospital to shuffle Alice along as well. The motto today is never leave Betty alone, so Jughead cannot spend all day harassing the sheriff, no matter how much he wants to.

“Midge’s death was ruled an accident, Jughead,” Keller informs him, tossing the halves into the trash.

“You can check the audio yourself. I have the tape right here,” Jughead urges. Betty already thought one step ahead and had him make a copy this morning, but he hesitates to hand it over, especially after watching what the sheriff just did to the last one.

The night before, Betty helped him break into the AV room. After pulling the audio, Jug was able to amplify the exchange between Penelope and Midge enough to clearly make out the words. Penelope asked Midge to meet her after track practice the day of the accident. It would not be a good look for the Blossom matriarch. Though Penelope asked Midge to meet her behind the basketball courts, Jughead bets someone saw Mrs. Blossom’s car. That custom cherry Aston Martin wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.

“This is new information, sheriff,” Jughead implores, handing Keller the tape. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask, right?”

Keller sucks his teeth and holds his hand out for the other tape. “You know nothing is going to get done today,” he informs Jug. “I’m not going to call Mrs. Blossom until we listen to the audio ourselves, and I can guarantee that won’t be until after the holiday, at the earliest.”

Jughead sighs. He knew that. Monday is Memorial Day and also when they plan to show off the pageant queen at the town parade. They can make it until Tuesday, he thinks.

After the Cooper’s house blew up, some of the guys around Sunnyside formed groups that go on nightly patrols of the neighborhood. Everyone is on their guard in the Southside, and the extra muscle lurking about in the evenings makes Betty feel safer.

Keller taps the tape, levelling with Jughead. “On the off chance you’re right and if it gets you off my ass for the moment, I can send a couple deputies to the pageant,” he offers.

It must be the most generous and good-natured thing the sheriff has ever done for Jughead, for Betty, too. Their presence at the pageant alone might dissuade Penelope from trying anything.

The sheriff holds a finger up, pinning a caveat to his good deed. “Remember, this is not necessarily to observe Mrs. Blossom. After what just happened to the mayor’s kid, it is starting to look like someone is up to something, so I can agree with you that it wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye on the pageant.”

Jughead blinks at him but keeps his trap shut. Of course it took something happening to the mayor’s kid for Keller to get off his ass. Never mind the two teenagers dead, a woman maimed, a blown up house, and animal cruelty to boot. However, Jughead forces himself not to bite this hand feeding him and graciously thanks the sheriff.

Keller gives him a look that says, _see, I’m not so bad a guy_ , but Jughead could spend hours debating that point.

Sheriff Keller asks Jug if he needs a lift to the gym, figuring that is where the kid is going after this.

“Um, if you don’t mind, that would be great, thanks,” Jughead says, and then tacks on, “I get to ride in the front, right?” After seeing his dad get carted off in the back of them enough times, Jug promised himself he would never be in that position.

Keller nods like he understands. “Sure, you can ride in the front. Maybe Deputy Miller will let you run the siren for kicks.” Like this is an elementary school ride-along, Jughead considers, only rolling his eyes once he has turned his back on the sheriff.

* * *

When Deputy Miller’s Crown Vic pulls up to the front of the gym with Jughead in the front seat, his mother looks like she might have an aneurysm. Jughead is equally as angry seeing her on the curb and not watching Betty like she should be. He slams the car door and starts marching across the parking lot.

Gladys drops her half-smoked cigarette and stomps out the ember with her heel before meeting him halfway. She advances like she is ready to slap him upside the head for whatever he got himself into that warranted him coming in a cop car. Or aim her fury center mass at Deputy Miller. Or both.

“What the hell did you do?” are the first words to come out of his mother’s mouth when they meet on the median.

“At ease, mom,” he grumbles, and she grabs him by the back of the shirt.

Deputy Miller quickly locks the car and comes trotting around the hood. “Mrs. Jones, I was only giving him a lift from the station. He’s not in trouble,” he assures her.

With his collar cutting into his throat, Jughead waits for his mother to relax her grip. She scowls at the deputy but ultimately releases the back of Jughead’s shirt. “Can I ask what you were doing at the station?”

Neither Betty nor Jughead let on about their plans to the Jones. It was his own mother that suggested they keep their investigation to themselves until they found hard proof.

Deputy Miller waits on the curb, probably anticipating another violent outburst from his mother. Jughead waves him off. It is better he be inside the gym. Jughead wants Penelope to see him.

As soon as Miller disappears inside the gym, Jughead rounds on his mother. “I’d ask you the same, being out here. You’re supposed to be watching Betty.”

“Slow your roll, kid,” his mother warns. “She’s in the dressing room. Pretty sure no one is going to kill her in front of a dozen teenage girls.” Unless the plan was to knock them all down in one fell swoop, he thinks, and feels panic condensing in his chest.

His mother claps him on the shoulder. “Besides, you’re here now,” she cheers and then grabs his ear. “But, I better not hear about you going in that dressing room, you hear?”

“I’m gonna ignore that slight on my character,” Jughead grumbles and hisses when his mom twists his ear. “Yeah, yeah, swear on my – Jesus, I don’t know.”

Gladys smirks and lets go of his ear. “Oh, you know.”

She digs around in her purse for her keys. “Jellybean is coming with me to the Sisters. After that I’m picking up Alice from the hospital. We should be back before the pageant starts, but here’s twenty dollars for the tickets,” she says, slapping the bills in his hand.

“Now, go do your job,” she orders, patting him on the cheek and then shoving him on the shoulder toward the door.

* * *

Rubbing his ear, Jughead trudges through the hallways circling the gym. He works his way to the backstage area that doubles as both prop storage and a makeshift dressing room for the girls. According to Penelope, the girl’s locker room was not an appropriate space to get ready for the pageant, something about questionable hygiene and improper lighting.

Fiddling with his handy-cam, he wonders where it would be best to keep watch before the pageant when he gets bowled over by one-hundred and twenty-five pounds of glittered teenage girl. He would have dropped his camcorder if it weren’t slung around his neck, which frees up his hands to catch her. His shoulders thud against the brick wall, and he is about to scold her, but she gets her mouth on him first, shutting him up right quick.

Suddenly, he does not mind one bit, negotiating his camera to his hip so he can wrap his arms around her and pull her flush against him.

“That’s some greeting,” he murmurs between kisses, feeling her smile against his lips.

She pulls away somewhat reluctantly, looking up at him through too much mascara and eye shadow. “Did you talk to the sheriff?”

He nods, curling his fingers along the nape of her neck. Her hair is loose and flowing over his hand. It is something he doesn’t get to see often. “Nothing until Tuesday,” he laments, studying the way the curls frame her face.

She huffs, and he quickly follows that disappointment with some good news. “But, he sent a couple deputies here, so hopefully that will convince Penelope to play nice for now.”

Betty raises her manicured eyebrows, not expecting that. “How nice of him.”

Jughead grins into the next kiss, his thumb hard on her jaw to tip her chin up, give him better access. She sinks into him, her palms flat on his chest. Her lip gloss tastes like vanilla.

“When do you have to get back?” he wonders against her mouth.

“Dress rehearsal in ten minutes,” she tells him and dives right back in. In between the next kiss, she adds, “I’ll need to redo my lipstick so eight minutes.”

Eight minutes is more than enough, he thinks, flipping their positions and pressing her up against the wall. He wraps his hands around her waist, gliding up to feel the slide of smooth satin against his palms.

“Careful of my dress,” she reminds him, his hands wrinkling the fabric at her waist.

He decides to slip them along her lower back, right where the scoop ends, and presses his fingers into the smooth skin there. She doesn’t say anything about his hands on her bare skin, and it emboldens him, his mouth trailing down her cheek and beneath her jawline. “I really like doing this,” he murmurs against her skin.

Her fingers crawl up beneath his beanie, getting a grip on his hair. “Me, too,” she confesses breathlessly, using his shoulder to balance herself. With heels on, there is so much more of her to access.

“I’m a little surprised,” she admits, sighing when he nips at the soft skin under her ear.

He pulls back, his nose nuzzling hers. “At what?”

“By a lot of things,” she admits, and he asks her to elaborate. He wants to hear exactly what surprises her, whether it is as pleasant for her as it is for him.

“I don’t know – that you like this,” she says, sliding one hand down the sherpa lapels of his denim jacket. With her pulse against his tongue, he immediately thinks, _how the hell could I not_.

“I mean, I’m glad you like this, really glad,” she adds, carding the fingers of her other hand through his hair. It feels amazing. “It’s a wonderful surprise, more than wonderful.”

Jughead thinks she means a little more than this, him liking it, her. He is surprised, too, by how good it feels, by how natural it seems. He cannot get enough of kissing Betty.

Unable to help himself, Jughead steals her mouth again, willing himself not to bury his hands in those golden curls and ruin all her hard work. He settles for messing up her lipstick.

* * *

Eventually, he must let her go. The girls need to work on their timing and hitting their marks for the opening ceremony.

Jughead wanders across the front of the stage, gazing up at the catwalk for any suspicious activity. He does a walkaround of the entire gym, checking all the emergency exits, the bathrooms, the locker rooms, the upper gym. Nothing appears out of the ordinary.

Feeling better about the state of things, he wanders into the gym and over to where all the chairs are set up for the audience. He is surprised to see Toni sitting in the front row.

“I thought pageants weren’t your thing,” he says, taking the seat next to her.

She brandishes her camera at him. “Yearbook.”

He snorts at himself. “I didn’t know you were in yearbook either.”

Toni tilts her head and regards him sidelong. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Jones.”

He smiles and looks down at the camcorder in his lap. “I bet I could say the same.”

Toni shakes her head. “Oh no, you haven’t gotten anything past me yet.”

“Oh, there’s at least one thing,” he challenges.

“What?” she shoots off, and then licks her bottom lip like she plans to have him for a snack. “You think I don’t know you were sucking face with Betty Cooper outside in the hallway?”

He frowns at her, and she shrugs. “Like I said, you haven’t gotten anything past me. Yet.”

He needs to work on his self-awareness, but Betty has always been his worst (best) distraction. That and a double cheeseburger at Pop’s. He gets tunnel vision when those two things are around. Then, he considers he should have asked Toni to help with his documentary from the beginning. She sees far more in others than he ever could. He won’t make that same mistake twice.

“You should’ve joined the _Blue and Gold_ years ago,” he muses.

Toni scoffs. “Not my scene, sorry.”

He leans back in his chair, the metal squeaking. “You, uh, mind if I keep you company until the pageant starts?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on your girl?” she tosses back.

“I’m not allowed in the dressing room,” he informs her. They can hear the click clack of heels on the other side of the curtain. “I’ll probably do another walkabout soon, check the electrical and the catwalk. Keller sent a couple deputies here to keep an eye on things.” Deputy Miller loiters about near the back where the spectators will filter in.

Toni peeks over her shoulder at the deputy. “That’s good. Some of the guys from the neighborhood will be here, too, for extra security.”

That is more reassuring. There will be a lot of eyes on Penelope tonight. He decides not to jinx it any further than that.

* * *

But, as the audience starts to meander into the gym, Jughead’s nervousness grows. Deputy Miller observes the crowd from the back wall, and there is a second deputy behind the curtain, but Jughead still feels like he is walking along a high-tension wire waiting for the first disaster of the night.

The opening ceremony goes smoothly. Penelope introduces the girls and lets them each say a few words at the front.

It doesn’t take long. The first debacle happens soon after that when they roll Polly out on stage in a wheelchair for her lip-syncing rendition of Vanessa Williams’s _Save The Best For Last_. Perched at the base of the stage, Jughead gets a full frontal shot of Penelope’s horror upon seeing Polly more than nine months pregnant and unable to walk with how big her belly is beneath her empire-waisted evening gown. The girl looks about ready to pop like a balloon at any second.

Mrs. Blossom appears to be praying down the minutes until the song is over, wringing the program in her hands. Her worst fears come true when, in the middle of the song, the nurse slips on the puddle trailing from Polly. Betty’s sister folds around her distended belly with a very loud howl that echoes through the auditorium.

While the nurse tries to regain her footing, Penelope comes striding out on stage with a brilliant, manic smile. With the microphone too close to her mouth, she requests everyone give Polly a big round of applause for her performance, and Jughead notices even Toni winces at the gaff. Nervous claps trickle from the audience followed by the aberrant whoop from Gladys when the nurse gains traction and starts to wheel a groaning and wheezing Polly off stage.

Then, Jason Blossom suddenly bolts across the stage behind Penelope, sliding momentarily through the broken water. Penelope covers the microphone and hisses at him to _get back here_ , but he disappears behind the curtain after Polly.

“This is riveting. I can’t breathe,” Kevin says, gaping with delight.

Penelope grins tightly again and trills over the microphone that they will be back after a short intermission. “Pop Tate has generously provided refreshments in the concession area.”

Then, she marches off in the direction of her son, careful of the puddle. No one speaks until the lights go dark.

“Holy crap, what just happened?” Kevin wonders in awe.

In the concessions area, Jughead swings the viewfinder wide, capturing half the crowd gawking at the paramedics rolling Polly into the back of the ambulance. She is followed closely by Jason hopping into the back of the cab, too.

Sipping punch, Kevin muses, “Do you think they were seeing each other on the side?” For the past year, Jughead considers privately, on the sly, behind his parents? That would be - an entire documentary in and of itself, too. 

Toni munches on popcorn and bets, “Probably.”

Off camera, Jughead asks his mother if anyone is going with Polly. “The Blossom kid went with her. We’ll be there after the pageant,” she excuses. She taps her box of Camels against her purse, staring out the glass windows debating whether she has time to smoke one.

Alice, looking doped-up on pain meds, asks her if she can bum one. They don’t let her smoke at the hospital, and she is going crazy for some nicotine. Jughead isn’t sure she is aware her oldest daughter was just carted off in labor.

After Mr. Svenson mops up the water on stage, Penelope announces the end of the impromptu intermission and the start of the physical fitness routine.

The second fiasco comes in another form when it is discovered less than one minute into the routine that the paint on the stools has not fully dried. Penelope looks like she is about to have a coronary as the girls get blue paint on their pristine white shorts and hands and thighs and faces and hair.

Kevin cannot stop laughing, burying his mouth into this palm as he starts tearing up. Even Toni murmurs, “This is the best,” while snapping shot after shot of the girls covering themselves in paint because, per Nana Rose Blossom, the show must go on.

After the routine, Jughead disappears behind stage to find all the girls passing around rags and a can of acetone. Betty walks up to him rubbing acetone over her hands and asks about Polly. “They said Jason went with her.”

Jughead nods. “He got in the back of the ambulance with her.”

She appears relieved to hear it. “Good, someone is with her.” Her forehead falls against his shoulder with a sigh. “This night is the epitome of Murphy’s Law.”

“You’re doing great,” he assures her, pressing a quick kiss to the side of her head. “A few hiccups, but I bet it will smooth out by the time you have to do your routine.”

She stands abruptly and slaps a hand over his mouth. “Nice one, jinx,” she scolds.

He peels her palm off his lips and smirks. “Were that I had proof of my powers,” he quips.

She glares at him but ultimately gives him a parting kiss before traipsing back to the dressing room to get ready for her talent.

Penelope allows the girls one more intermission to get the paint out of their hair. With a grateful _thank you_ to Pop, Jughead loads a paper plate with goodies from the refreshment table before staking out a position behind the curtain stage left. He hopes to catch the contestants for some quick interviews before their performances.

Cheryl Blossom goes first, but when Jughead sees her on her father’s arm, he fills his mouth with sugar cookies and smiles awkwardly, pointing at his mouth. She doesn’t seem to be in the interviewing mood either, not with her new dance partner’s tight grip on her arm. Clifford Blossom looks like he wants to kill a man. Jughead can only imagine the fallout coming from Jason’s earlier blunder.

He shoots the tango, though. Cheryl does her best to keep her smile bright and vivacious for the crowd, but Jughead can see the stiffness in her shoulders, her arms, the slight winge when Clifford jerks her forward. Jason and Cheryl would have been delightfully absurd camp, but this father-daughter dance reads more like tragicomedy. Watching this charade, he actually feels sorry for Cheryl. Maybe there was some truth to what Toni told him a couple days ago.

Thankfully, they exit on the right.

Jughead feels the presence before he sees her and whips around to find Eveyln Evernever shark-eyed and perky in Sunday whites. “Do you like it?”

“It?” he wonders, bracing himself for whatever _it_ is.

“This is the clothing of my people,” she informs him, waving her hand to showcase the summer linen.

“Your people,” he says, his voice breaking like a preteen. “It’s, um, lovely, Evelyn. It’s very – clean.”

“We have to be clean for the baptism,” she explains, staring up at him with a glassy, faraway gaze.

Jughead glances at the stage to see Mr. Svenson pulling a metal wash tub onto the stage. It must only be for show because it is not filled, which is a relief because how the hell would they have gotten it off the stage or emptied it.

Penelope waves her arm wide and calls Evelyn onto the stage. In a tight voice, he tells Evelyn to break a leg, but as soon as she skips onto the stage, Jughead pinches the bridge of his nose. This night is starting to take a lot out of him, and it isn’t even halfway over.

Nancy Woods joins him with a shy _hello_. She is more subdued than he has seen her, smiling nervously and turning her attention to Evelyn’s performance. Jughead, however, is unable to stomach Evelyn’s monologue for more than a few minutes and turns back to Nancy fidgeting in the wings. She usually looks most comfortable in her River Vixens uniform, but right now going on stage appears to be the last thing she wants to do.

“Are you nervous?” he asks.

With an uncharacteristically anxious grin, she admits to the camera, “Yeah, I haven’t told my boyfriend yet.”

Noticing her arms cradling her stomach, Jughead realizes her mind is in a completely different place. His mouth going dry, he guesses Polly’s performance has something to do with it. He gulps and clarifies, “Um, sorry, I meant about the pageant.”

Her eyes go wide, but she recovers quickly. “Oh, about my performance,” Nancy says, catching up. “No, I’m not nervous,” she chirps, her smile brilliant but fake.

The lights go dark on Evelyn Evernever as she spills out of the tub and falls to the floor in rapture. Most of the audience is unsure if she is done, watching her seize on stage, but then a group of people dressed in the same white linen near the back of the audience suddenly give a standing applause.

Taking that as her cue, Penelope strides on stage and thanks Evelyn for sharing her _talent_ with them. Even Jughead can hear the italics. Evelyn abruptly grabs Penelope’s wrist and pulls the microphone to her mouth, thanking her family for coming to watch her. Jughead sweeps the viewfinder to the group in the back. There must be at least twenty people in white back there, all still clapping vigorously with uncompromising eagerness. It would be endearing if it weren’t also extremely creepy. 

“Yes, thank you, Evelyn,” Penelope says curtly and yanks the microphone back.

Reggie Mantle and Chuck Clayton appear behind him. Chuck wraps his arms around Nancy from behind and pulls her back, burying his face in her neck. “You ready, baby?”

Nancy giggles, relaxing into her usual self. She turns and pecks her boyfriend on the cheek.

If his speculation is true, Jughead hopes Chuck and Nancy survive it. They are sort of gross and unsettling in their obsession with each other, but if Jughead uncovered anything about their relationship from his documentary, it is that they fully support one another. Even though their PDA is over the top, he kind of doesn’t want to see that go away.

Jughead hears muffled commotion coming from backstage and thinks _what next_. Peeking around the side of the curtain, he spots Betty spilling out of the dressing room area and running for the double doors. She shoves the mannequin nailed to a wooden stake on a dolly, a tasteless prop they used one year for Jesus Christ Superstar. It rolls across the staging area, smacking last year’s particle board cutouts for Carrie’s punishment room beneath the stairs. 

Jughead finds her on the stairs leading to the upper gym. Seated on the window ledge, she busies herself shredding a wad of dirty tissues. She looks up at him through wet eyelashes before her dejected gaze drops back to the torn tissues.

His mind runs through any number of scenarios – bad news from the hospital about Polly, another terrible accident with one of the other contestants, another altercation with Penelope. Jughead presses stop on the camcorder and sets it on the ledge, taking a seat next to her. He reaches over and clasps one of her hands to curb her shredding, sliding his thumb across her knuckles.

“My costume is gone,” she says finally, squeezing his hand and hiccupping.

Jughead curses his earlier statement as it curses him. Squeezing back, he tempers his anger with comfort. “Betty.”

She skims a nail under her eye and explains, “Penelope says I can’t replace it. Costumes have to be approved a week in advance. She let Cheryl use her dad to replace Jason, but I can’t use a different costume. Talk about double standards.”

“There’s nothing we can do?” Jughead tries, scanning his brain for some solution, but he cannot help thinking it would come down to something as petty as stealing Betty’s costume and hiding behind some stupid technicality.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Sniffling, Betty looks up at the ceiling. “I just wanted to compete.”

“I know,” he agrees, wishing there were anything he could do. He would literally do anything right now to get her on that stage.

“What’s wrong with what you have on?” he wonders, gesturing at her solid black leotard and tights.

“The head organizer can make exceptions based on circumstance, but Penelope thinks this is too inappropriate. She said, and I quote, ‘I can’t let you go on stage in that skimpy, little thing.’ Yet, it’s okay for Nancy to go out there showing her bare legs. Not to knock her for it, but they don’t really seem comparable, do they?”

Betty shakes her head, dabbing her eyes with a torn tissue. “I guess I can head to the hospital to be with Polly. Someone should be there with her.” She tears another tissue in half, grinding her teeth. “It’s just so frustrating. We get this far and for nothing.”

“Not for nothing.”

Veronica appears at the top of the stairwell. She takes her top hat off and sits on Betty’s other side. “What if I gave you my costume?”

Betty shakes her head, her voice firm, “V, I couldn’t do that.”

“Sure you can,” Veronica urges, shrugging out of her tails and draping the jacket over Betty’s shoulders. “Here, my costume was approved a month ago. I want you to have it.”

Betty looks uncomfortable taking the jacket, like she might start sobbing as soon as it rests on her shoulders. She reasons that taking the costume means Veronica cannot compete, and Betty cannot take that opportunity away from her. “You’ve been practicing this for weeks. It’s your hard work, too.” 

Veronica boops the sullen blonde on the nose. “You think I don’t know that? I only signed on because you signed on, Betty. And you’ve been working toward this your whole life. You are supposed to compete, if only to say you did it. I mean, after everything that’s happened, why should Penelope get to win?”

Betty smooths one of the lapels. “I don’t know how I’m going to repay you,” she says with overwhelming gratitude.

“Well, for starters, you can win. That will go a long way,” Veronica tells her, slinging an arm along Betty’s shoulders and hugging her close. “I just want to see you dance.”

Betty pounces on the brunette, hauling her in for a big hug, a million _thanks you_ s streaming from her mouth. Veronica pats her on the shoulder and gently extricates herself from Betty’s overeager appreciation. “Let’s go change because your number is up soon.”

Betty turns beaming at Jughead. This girl really has the devil’s luck, he muses proudly. She smudges her thumb across his cheek. “See? Keep your jinxes to yourself next time, Jones,” she chides gently, brushing her lips across at the corner of his mouth.

He leans into it and smiles. “Duly noted.”

* * *

While Betty and Veronica leave to exchange costumes, Jughead wanders back to the stage to watch Ginger Lopez wrap up her baton twirling. He slips a fresh tape in the deck because Betty is next in the queue. He would hate to have to change it in the middle of her routine. 

Something bumps above his head, a creak on the catwalk, and alarm bells immediately go off in his head. Stepping off to the side, he warily gazes up, squinting up into the darkness. It is nearly impossible to see what it is up there with the stage lights.

As quietly as possible, Jughead climbs the ladder to the catwalk, his camcorder at the ready to catch whoever might be up there tampering with the lighting. Jughead peeks above the platform, scanning the walkway, but he can’t see much at the end of the path. He hears someone moan, another creak of the railing.

Climbing up onto the platform, he covers the small light on the front of the camcorder and raises the viewfinder, tiptoeing towards the sounds. The catwalk squeaks under his next step, and he freezes, staring into the darkness wide-eyed and waiting. Nothing comes out except another small cry. It reminds him a little of the sounds Betty made earlier before the pageant, when he had her pressed up against the wall in the hallway.

He takes another step forward, and at the last moment, moves his hand.

All the air leaves his lungs in one abrupt exhale, and he immediately drops the handycam.

Cheryl Blossom launches herself away from Toni, bracing herself against the railing with nowhere to go, but Jughead knows what he saw.

“Jughead,” Toni starts.

Looking about to cry, Cheryl presses the back of her hand against her mouth to stifle the first sob. Jughead raises his opens palms, at a loss for what to do, what to make of what he just witnessed.

Toni turns to the redhead, reaching for her shoulders, but Cheryl flinches away like a small, frightened animal. Toni is nearly half a foot shorter than the redhead in heels, but she tries to sound firm and brave, reassuring the cornered girl that _everything is okay_.

Cheryl’s watery fear evaporates into rage, her gaze levelling with Jughead like she wishes he would turn to ash with one look. The redhead chews her bottom lip, and Jughead suddenly gets the feeling she might shove him over the railing. With more grace than he expected in heels on a catwalk, she marches towards him, and he grabs hold of the railing, bracing himself for the push. Her shoulder hits him hard, but she doesn’t push him, merely shoulders past and climbs back down the ladder.

Toni stares at the camcorder around Jughead’s neck. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

He balks. “What?”

Her earlier confidence dissolves, more desperation in her voice when she practically begs, “Please, Jones, promise me. You don’t know what her parents are like, okay?”

He stammers out a promise, swearing he won’t tell anyone. It wasn’t even his first or second thought. Toni looks more lost than he has ever seen her before, but he – he doesn’t know what else to say.

Below them, Penelope asks the audience to clap for Ginger. Jughead needs to get down there in time to record Betty’s routine.

“I swear, okay,” he reiterates. “If it makes you feel better, here.” He opens the tape deck and hands her the cassette. “That’s the only thing on there. Do what you want with it. Destroy it. It’s yours.”

Now, Toni’s chin starts wobbling. It looks like she has a death grip on the cassette. “Thank you,” she says, her voice tight, and then she dismisses him with a bothered wave of her hand. She doesn’t want him to see her like this, but also Betty is about to go on.

Jughead nods, understanding. He feels like he should hug her, but he knows she would probably hit him.

He hurries back down the ladder, sliding the last five feet. He can hear Betty’s tap shoes on the boards, and he quickly clambers off the stage to resume his perch at the front of the platform.

Betty walks out onto the stage in Veronica’s uniform and smiles nervously at Penelope’s pinched face. The costume is vastly different from the red, sequined number she was supposed to wear, but Jughead thinks she looks even more dapper in the tails, spritely in the black sparkling shorts. That top hat is downright charming. It is a good look, even if it wasn’t what she was expecting.

He quickly snaps another tape into the deck and presses record. She spots him hiding at the edge of the stage and grins, suddenly looking more assured, more comfortable. He can see it in her demeanor, in the way she carries her shoulders, and wonders if he did that, shivers running down his spine in anticipation.

The guy at the sound deck gives her the thumbs up, and Betty counts it out. She opens her routine without music. Her first few moves are mesmerizing all on their own. It sets the tone, that she is in control, that she is enough without the accoutrements of music or flashy lights or theatrics. She will always be brighter than that.

Hunched at the front of the stage, he thinks his sternum is lying somewhere on the floor of the gymnasium, probably kicked beneath one of the folding chairs because his heart was too full to stay buried inside his chest any longer. Not when she works her way jauntily across the stage, improvising her routine on the fly to incorporate her new top hat. The pure joy on her face is not because she is sticking it to Penelope or knows she is going to win but because that was all she wanted to do. She just wanted to tap. And they all got her there. She got herself there simply by being her.

He sweeps the viewfinder across the crowd, capturing their own rapt attention on the carefree girl skipping a wide, carefree circle around the stage, moving like her feet could take her anywhere, could defy gravity if she needed.

Jughead centers her in the lens once more, but the routine is over too soon. Too soon because he could watch her tap dance for hours, for days, and then her top hat is rolling along her arm as she hands it out to the crowd with one final, cheeky bow.

He loves her. The crowd roars with delight, clapping and standing and whooping. Jughead runs backstage. He loves her so much.

She finds him quickly, and without preamble, she is in his arms. He hefts her up and swings her around, grinning like an idiot. With sweaty fly-aways framing her face and heady pink high in her cheeks, she kisses him, kisses each dimple and smile line.

“You’re going to win,” he cheers, hugging her tight around the middle and lifting her up higher.

Her smile extends beyond her face, envelopes him, mesmerizes him. “I don’t care if I win,” she tells him. “That was enough.” She is enough.

He lets her feet touch the ground but doesn’t allow her to regain her bearings before he grabs her face and pulls her in for another kiss. She kisses him back, and he realizes he will never want more than that.

Veronica clears her throat. Arms crossed, she waits for them to detach at the mouth. Jughead notes she is dressed in her civvies again. Or at least what passes for civilian clothes on a girl like Veronica Lodge. “Penelope wants everyone getting ready for the awards ceremony,” she informs them. “Except for me, of course.”

Before she leaves him, Betty grabs the front of his shirt and yanks him down again, giving him one more quick kiss. “I really like doing that,” she whispers to him before running back to the dressing rom.

Jughead stands there, awestruck and bee stung lips. Veronica jostles his shoulder. “Where’s my thank you, Jones?”

* * *

“We was robbed!” Alice shouts as the paramedics roll into the back of the ambulance. When they announced the winner of the pageant, she had a fit, passed out, and Gladys called the second ambulance of the night.

Jughead drapes his jacket over Betty’s shoulders and hugs her to his side as she waves her mother off.

Her gaze keeps flickering over to the trash can a few feet to their left, as if debating whether to dump her second-place trophy. Before she can, Jughead snatches it and holds it out, inspecting the tacky gold paint and the vapid face of the woman standing on top. It is a miniature version of the one Cheryl’s father holds as the Blossom family glides across the parking lot towards their Mercedes Benz.

Chuck pulls Nancy along, and she waves at Betty and Jughead, showing them her second runner-up trophy and proclaiming herself the second-place winner. Chuck quickly corrects her, showing three fingers. “Third place,” he says curtly. “You got third place.”

Gladys taps her pack of Camels against her palm. “No one and their brother are surprised,” she muses aloud, fishing a cigarette from the pack.

Jughead could debate that. Based on the expressions of the crowd, most were alarmed when Cheryl Blossom was crowned Miss Riverdale. Initially, there was confusion, but that soon evaporated into resignation. The Blossoms were always going to win the pageant.

However, there was no crown to give because everyone forgot it had been wheeled off to the hospital with Polly Cooper. So, Cheryl had to strut across the stage crownless. Jughead could parse out the metaphor in that spectacle, but instead he abandoned his post to go find Betty.

He found her in the dressing room, expecting more tears, but she was calmly collecting her makeup kit and costumes. When she saw him in the mirror behind her, she smiled. Jughead could barely see the disappointment beneath the tenderness. He squeezes her shoulder now remembering it.

Pinching the cigarette between her teeth around a sneer, Gladys starts toward the car. With an art she has perfected, she manages to walk and talk and light the cigarette in her mouth all at the same time. “Come on, kids, let’s go get some food.”

Jellybean traipses after her and grumbles about hospital cafeteria food. Jughead hopes they aren’t getting hospital food. It would be a pitiful way to end an even more disappointing night.

With his mother’s back turned, he braces his hand on Betty’s head and pulls it towards him, kissing her hard on the temple. “You were phenomenal,” he whispers.

She smiles and pats his belly, which grumbles on cue. “I’m starving, too,” she tells his stomach.

* * *

At Pop’s diner, Gladys spends half the wait for their food hitting on one of the soda jerks at the counter.

Jughead peeks over his shoulder in time to see his mother lick the top off her milkshake while giving the waiter her best sultry eyes. He turns back around, looking at his own milkshake with some discomfort.

“It weirds you out?” Betty wonders, sliding his milkshake towards her for a sip.

He just sighs. “It makes her happy. Honestly, it’s kind of admirable. She keeps trying, man, no matter what.”

Betty hums in agreement. “Yeah, she doesn’t shy from rejection, does she?”

Jellybean snorts. “She’s got self-esteem flying out of her ass.”

Jughead frowns at his little sister, and she shrugs. “What? Her words, not mine.”

The table stews in silence for a few beats. Betty forgoing her orange freeze to spend most of her time on Jughead’s milkshake. He lets her, holding her other hand and stroking the tops of her knuckles, letting her digest the night.

Jellybean is the first one to shout the obvious. “How the hell did Cheryl Blossom win?”

A few heads turn their way, and Jughead kicks his little sister in the shin. “Inside voice, you imp.”

Jellybean boots him back. His nostrils flaring, he is about ready to bop her on the head. The pageant’s outcome is still a raw subject. Betty left her disappointing second-place trophy in the car.

Betty laughs softly, resting her chin on her fist. “How could Cheryl Blossom not win,” she muses. Jughead squeezes her hand, and she looks at him sidelong with a peaceful smile. “Come on, we knew it was going to happen, but at least I got to dance. Penelope didn’t get to take that from me.”

Gladys tumbles into the booth next to Jellybean. Jughead catches her slipping a folded napkin into her purse. “Food should be here soon,” she announces, placing her half-drunk milkshake on the tabletop.

Gauging the temperature of the table, she supposes, “We still moping then?”

Betty leans back in her seat and shakes her head. “I’m not. I got to do what I wanted, so.”

His mother smiles fondly. “That’s my girl.” But, then she adds with some bitterness, “You should’ve won, though.”

Betty chuckles, and Gladys throws her hands up. “That’s all I’m gonna say about it.”

* * *

As soon as they walk into the ER with a bag of Pop’s to-go, a very frazzled Jason Blossom dressed in scrubs comes running at them yelling with joy, “It’s twins!”

Betty, squealing with glee, is the only one to chase after the ecstatic new father back into the delivery room.

Jellybean grimaces and gripes about _babies_. Gladys snorts and slings her arm along the back of Jughead’s neck, dragging him in the direction Betty and Jason went. “Well, now we know how that one ended. See, kiddo, all’s well that ends well.”

When he sees the warm look on Betty’s face while holding her new niece, he thinks that could be true.

* * *

Behind the Blossom’s gigantic swan float, he can barely see Betty and Nancy in the Cadillac convertible.

“I swear this thing gets more and more depressing every year,” Kevin complains, sniffing at the aging community dance troupe prancing behind a cardboard-fronted “truck” with two junior ROTC members in the front. Jughead cannot tell if they are promoting ROTC or the soap box race next week.

Already bored, Jellybean asks if she can get some popcorn. Without permission, she shoves her hand in his pocket searching for spare change. Jughead grabs her wrist and bops her on the head.

“For that, I should let you starve,” he scolds. “But you’re annoying me, so here, heathen.” He fishes a couple bills out of his pocket and slaps them into her grabby hand. 

Jughead wants to go see Betty before they have to join the parade, partially for a closing interview with Nancy, but also because he just, well, wants to see her.

He asks Kevin if he can keep an eye on Jellybean before wandering toward the swan float, aiming the camera lens at the long neck curving nearly twenty feet high. There are a million sparklers set up around the petal paper hyacinths decorating the base of the swan. It looks like a major fire hazard, and it smells heavily of gasoline around the float. He bets Clifford skimped on the construction.

He still doesn’t know if he will close out his documentary with Cheryl at the state pageant. Without Betty, it feels pointless, and he kind of wants this chaos to be over. They all deserve a nice, quiet summer to themselves.

Glass breaks in the alley next to him, and he groans. He should really stop jinxing himself. He doesn’t want to look. He is already tired from stumbling across way too many Riverdale secrets this week.

The voice of Penelope Blossom echoes off the brick, and he sighs, turning toward the ruckus with his camcorder aimed for maximum drama.

He startles to see Penelope lunge for Toni Topaz, grabbing her hair and yanking her away from her daughter. Cheryl tries to stop her, grabbing her mother’s wrist, and then it is a fight, an actual fight. Toni punches Penelope Blossom in the stomach until she lets go of Toni’s hair. Then, Toni strikes Penelope in the face for good measure before slinging her arm along Cheryl’s waist and backing them up a safe distance.

Jughead is about to turn the camcorder off when Cheryl throws the crown on the ground. “I quit! I’m not going to be your doll anymore, mother.”

Penelope screeches, picking the crown up off the ground and brushing it on her pants. She steers the full force of her rage at her daughter. “After everything I’ve done for you! You don’t get to quit on me, young lady. You put this crown back on your head, and you get back up on that thirty-thousand-dollar float right now!”

Cheryl refuses to budge, drawing Toni tighter to her side. “I’m an adult now,” the redhead declares firmly. “Jason has a place for me in New Haven. I’m not doing this anymore.”

The fracture reminds Jughead of the one time he saw someone break a car window. One single hard point cracked against the glass, and the entire thing shattered into a million pieces just like that, no preamble. One minute it was solid glass, and the next it was like rock salt on the ground.

“I _killed_ for you!” Penelope roars.

Jughead looks down to make sure his recording light is still on, that the battery is charged, that there is film left in the cassette. All systems are a go.

“You wouldn’t be on that float without me!” Mrs. Blossom howls, pointing at the swan. “That little bitch Midge Klump would be up there, and you wouldn’t have even been a blip on the judge’s radar. You think your stiff-as-a-board talent stood any chance against that trailer trash piece of shit Betty Cooper? It was like watching your father dance with a mannequin!”

She redirects her finger at her daughter, taking a step forward while the couple edges away. “I paved the way for you, Cheryl, and you are not going to pay me back by engaging in this disgusting behavior with this – heathen.”

Toni looks at him first. Then, Cheryl’s head turns in tandem, drawing her mother’s line of sight. The look of horror on Penelope’s face upon seeing him is only made more poignant by the terror that instantly pales her face when she spots the camcorder, the red recording light a bright accusing eye aimed her way. She sobers quickly, her hand flying to her mouth as she tries to recall if she said anything she could not spin later.

Jughead backs out of the alleyway slowly until he is on the sidewalk, in full public view.

Petrified, Penelope drops the crown, stuttering his name.

Jughead snaps the viewing window closed and smiles like he cannot help himself. “Sorry, Mrs. Blossom, but you’re the one that let the fox in the henhouse first,” he quips.

The fireworks on the swan start spitting sparks and flares of light behind him, making his smile expand into a victorious grin. All that pageantry for nothing.

Then, something explodes behind him. He ducks his head in shock, covering himself with his arm. Whipping around, he sees the column of smoke and flames rising from the shell of the sawn, the petal paper instantly disintegrating into ash.

In a few moments, Chuck sprints past them screaming Nancy’s name. It draws Jughead’s panic towards the Cadillac, but he sees both Nancy and Betty safely sitting in the convertible and gawking at the flaming swan.

Penelope runs past him, gaping at the float as if watching all her dreams combust in the pyre. She wails and falls to her knees. For a moment, it looks like she is about to dive into the burning carcass of the swan and self-immolate, but Clifford hooks his arms around her waist, wrestling her away from the wreckage.

Jughead feels his heartbeat returning to normal, staring up at where the swan’s crown used to be. That could’ve been Cheryl up there. Hell, that could’ve been Betty up there.

He feels something nudge his shoulder and turns to see Cheryl holding the crown out to him. One of the fake diamonds fell off. She holds it like it could explode at any moment, too.

She looks tired, and he notices that she isn’t wearing any makeup for once, like she was caught by her mother before she could fully mask up. It feels like seeing a double rainbow, Cheryl Blossom without her armor. Then, she does the last thing he expects and offers the crown to him. “Here, she deserves this.”

* * *

Betty is mesmerized by the city, the expanse of it, the skyscrapers so tall she cannot see the tops of them, the cacophony of sounds and all the lights. It is on the opposite side of the spectrum from the sleepy little village of Riverdale, but he can already see it on her face, that glow of belonging. She wants to be here. She applied to Columbia to be here.

It makes something crunch in his chest, but she also holds his hand so tightly right now that he wonders where her mind is at.

“Are you nervous?” he wonders, staring at their clasped hands.

She turns her head and smiles at him. “Not much, to be honest,” she admits. “I’ve got the best support system in the world.”

“You’ve always got me in your corner,” he assures her for the millionth time.

Betty squeezes his hand, her gaze dropping to his mouth briefly before flickering back to his eyes.

“Keep your hands where I can see them, junior,” his mother warns, adjusting the rearview mirror.

Jughead catches her murderous glare in the reflection and debates releasing Betty’s hand.

His mother caught him with Betty last night after she snuck into Jughead’s room. Then, Gladys sat them both down on the couch and gave a very protracted speech about safe sex and that two knocked-up Coopers was more than enough for one family.

Jughead tried to interject that they were only sleeping, which they were, but it didn’t help that his mother found Betty pretty much on top of him because she liked sleeping that way. The look his mother gave him could’ve cut glass, so he shut up and endured his fifth or sixth birds-and-the-bees conversation, grimacing at every gritty and graphic detail. He was so exhausted by the end that when the box of condoms hit his chest and landed in his lap, he was just glad to be allowed to go back to bed.

Betty slept in Jellybean’s room. He spent the whole night losing a staring contest with the box of Trojans before eventually hiding them in his nightstand and shoving his head underneath a pillow. The only saving grace it seemed was that his mother appeared okay with them being together. She wasn’t even surprised.

All three of them are rooming together. Betty and Gladys get the queen bed, and Jughead is relegated to the pull-out. His face heats up with the thought, and he blames his mother, closing his eyes tight. Betty tugs on his hand, and he opens his eyes to her quiet amusement.

Betty mercifully changes the subject. “You sure Jelly is gonna be okay with my mom watching her?”

Gladys snorts. “I think you got it mixed up, kid. I left Jellybean in charge of your mom.”

The hospital let Alice come home a couple days ago. She has a surgery scheduled during the state pageant, so she couldn’t come with them to New York. Jughead thinks she will be just fine with Alice. When they left, Alice and Jellybean were curled up together on the sofa in the Jones living room watching reruns of Cheers. Alice had a full cooler under her propped feet, and Jellybean had a whole bag of _Flamin’ Cheetos_. He imagines the peace will last as long as the alcohol and junk food don’t run out.

“We’re here,” Gladys singsongs, pulling the station wagon up to the curb and popping the trunk. “They better validate parking here. I’m not paying twenty bucks a day to park.” 

Jughead leans over Betty to look out the window and up at the headquarters for Morning Glory Cosmetics. They see the giant _FOR LEASE_ banner first.

Gladys puts the car in park and squints at the entrance. “What the fuck?”

Jughead and Betty look at the same time. They all tumble out of the car, gaping at the spectacle.

It is nine in the morning, but apparently, they were one of the last to arrive, and therefore, one of the last to discover that no one had informed the Riverdale pageant organization committee that Morning Glory Cosmetics had gone bankrupt three months ago.

Unfortunately, they were not the only ones out of the loop because currently there is a riot of girls sobbing and shrieking on the sidewalk, ripping posters and banners off the front of the building. A group of ten or so ladies topple the giant M in the empty fountain. 

His mother curses in confusion once more, but Betty grabs Jughead’s hand, tugging on his attention. She smiles up at him. “You know what I’m craving?”

“What?” he asks, glancing at the mob and sighing.

“A bagel,” she announces. “Lots of cream cheese and capers and onions.”

He hums in agreement, adding that he would love some lox, too, as they both turn back towards the car. Betty scrunches her face in distaste, opening the car door.

“No lox?” he inquires. “Why?”

“It’s raw fish,” she says, sticking her tongue out.

Jughead helps her into the backseat. “How would you know it’s bad? Have you ever had it?”

“No,” she admits, but stands firm by her opinion. “It’s just asking for food poisoning.”

He exhales in thought and reasons, “Well, I like to live my life on the edge.”

She snorts, rolling her eyes toward the opposite window.

Stroking his thumb over the back of her hand, he muses aloud, “You know what else we could do while we’re here?”

She turns back to him with a prompting look.

“Visit Columbia,” he suggests. “See what all the fuss is about.”

“I heard NYU has a good film school,” she adds with a suggestive pump of her sculpted eyebrows, recently waxed by his mother in preparation for the pageant, a non-issue now.

Jughead sees it in her eyes, an unsaid, hopeful question. He could be here, too, with her. She deferred her admission, and he has an entire year to figure it out. They have an entire year to make it work. He picks up her hand and kisses the back of it, murmuring against her skin that it is worth a look.

His mother is still standing on the curb smoking a cigarette and staring at the fray. Jughead sticks his head out the window. “Mom, let’s go get a bagel!”

Gladys purses her lips and drops the cigarette. She smashes it with her heel and turns back to the station wagon with a final exhale. “Yeah, fuck it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, it's over! I finished a long-fic! A million thank yous for reading, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed how it all turned out. I would be eternally grateful for any feedback <3


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